


Inside Stone Walls

by HeadintheCloudsForever



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast (Fairy Tale), Once Upon a Time (TV), The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Menken/Schwartz/Parnell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Long, Magic, Minor Original Character(s), Pregnancy, Romance, Sex, Slow Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 77
Words: 385,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadintheCloudsForever/pseuds/HeadintheCloudsForever
Summary: Longfic. Like stupidly long, Odyssey Length style, sort of OUAT-based. If you're okay with that, feel free to dive into this weird little adventure that I've created.Inside Stone Walls Summary: Belle escapes an abusive marriage to Gaston Dupont, taking refuge within Notre Dame de Paris, where she meets the elusive and mysterious bell ringer of the cathedral, of whom she has heard many stories. She forms a forbidden attachment to the man with the looks and reputation of a vicious monster, but also attracts the attention of the Minister of Justice, Claude Frollo during her stay within the cathedral's sanctuary, inside these stone walls, whose lust for the young inventor's daughter drives him into contact with a handsome young Prince of these lands, with sinister intentions of his own...
Relationships: Belle/Gaston (Disney), Belle/Quasimodo (Disney), belle/maurice
Comments: 228
Kudos: 34





	1. Prologue: Her Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heatherette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heatherette/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lovely fanfictions inspired this work, and that I drew inspiration from, to name a few, and are absolutely worth checking out if you are either a HoND fan or a BATB fan. Namely, the pieces in mind are "Foundling Child" by Renarde Rogue", "The Jewess of Toledo," by Merrow_in_the_Barrow, and "The Beauty Within", by Sakura121 over on FanFiction.Net that I highly recommend checking out if you have free time. All are incredible authors and deserve to have their work recognized.

**Prologue:**

**The Confession**

It was raining harder than usual. The rain of Paris brought a richness to each hue, the browns deepening in a way that soothed Belle's heart and brought a strange steadiness to her fractured soul. The grass became glossy, reflecting the light, a bright new shine to their strands, softly waving in the breeze of the chilly bitter fall Paris air.

Winter would soon be upon them, and the little village that lay at the edge of the woods just on the outskirts of the heart of the City of Lovers would soon suffer for it. The rain came, oblivious to the life it gave, washing the world, quenching the soil and the life who depended upon it. In either warmth or coldness, sunlight, or moonlight, it mattered not. The rain came, humble to its role, and the fair-skinned brunette beauty tilted her head to the sky and watched.

Belle could not quite believe that she had managed to escape under the cover of nightfall. Belle glanced down at the simple yellow gold wedding ring she wore on her left hand and scowled, knitting her dark brows together in hatred. Though the ring itself was really quite beautiful, it signaled a union which she had never wanted, and only had agreed to in order to save her father from certain death. As much as Belle liked to think that she and Maurice could get by on their own, the simple fact of the matter remained that they could not, and, for better or worse, she had accepted Gaston's proposal.

Gaston's lack of eye contact ought to have warned Belle as to the distinguished war veteran's true nature. For it was not natural to avert your gaze from one whom you claimed to love. Belle knew this. The young brunette heaved a heavy sigh as the priest's footfalls rounded the corner, and she smiled as she recognized one of the heads of the church coughing once to clear his throat as he settled into the other side of the confessional, the screen separating the two of them. "Are you there, Father?" she whispered, painfully twisting her fingers together, feeling her nails dig into the skin of her palm.

"Of course, my child. I understand that you have requested I bring a quill and parchment. I gathered by the nature of your request, we are bound to sit in this booth for quite some time, dear. But whatever on earth for, child?" he asked, concern laced throughout his warbling and somewhat ancient voice. "Are you well?"

The Archdeacon of Josas, Belle had come to learn during the two weeks of her stay within these walls, was a kind and gentle soul, and she was afraid that one day the man's unwavering kindness would undoubtedly be his downfall. "Do you require any assistance whilst you are here, dear?"

Belle shook her head, though she knew that the man could not see it. "F—Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. _Egregiously_ ," she added with emphasis, and she bit her bottom lip as she heard a noise. It sounded as though the Archdeacon were stifling a laugh, if she knew him well enough, and by this point during her time in Paris, Belle liked to think that she knew the elderly man quite well. Just like her Papa. At the thought of Maurice back home, suffering under Gaston's wrathful, watchful eye, she cringed as her heart gave a painful lurch. Ah, but gods, the reality of her situation was but too much.

"I should have come to you sooner. I realize that now," Belle began again hesitantly, resting her hands uncertainly in her lap, fidgeting with the skirts of her dark blue velvet gown, and deciding that wasn't enough, reached upwards and toyed with a strand of her brown hair. "It has been three weeks since my last confession. I should have come to you sooner, Your Grace. I realize that now, but I…I didn't, and now, I am not the only one who must pay the price for my failure to act. Were it not so…"

"Yes?" The Archdeacon prompted kindly.

Belle stared absently at a spot on the confessional, wishing that she could at least look out a window. It would make her words come more naturally, instead she was trapped inside this box. "I—I cannot live this way anymore, Father. With…with my…husband," she whispered, her gaze drifting down towards the ring she wore on her left hand. She blinked back briny tears and swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. "To be forced into a union that I never asked for in the first place should be criminal, and now…"

 _You're in love with a man who is not your husband, of whom society would never approve_ , her conscience finished for her, though Belle did not dare voice that particular thought, less the church look down in disapproval upon the young woman for her actions, though they were actions of passion, of her heart. She steeled herself, coughing once to clear her throat, and continued. "There has to be another way, Your Grace, for were I to return home, he would kill me, or my Papa, and I cannot allow that to happen. I—I should kill myself if my husband comes for me." Belle scowled as she heard the old man let out an audible gasp of surprise from the other side of the confessional. "Do not give me that look, I can hear you," she sighed, pursing her lips into a thin line, and folding her arms across her chest in agitation.

"Why would you even consider this an alternative?" the Archdeacon spluttered indignantly. "Th—there are other ways. You have not lost your claim to sanctuary here. Your husband cannot revoke it."

Belle nodded, and then remembered the man could not see her. "I—I know," she whispered, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout and furrowing her delicately shaped brows into a frown. "Forgive me, Father, but I do not see another way if he comes for me. Once Gaston finds out what I've done…he gave me a _ring_ and I gave him my _word_ , and I've broken that promise to my husband, Your Grace. Gaston will be _furious_. I do not even know if he will…if he would take me back, but he's coming for me, Father." She cringed and clenched her eyes shut, though the movement did her no good, for visions of her husband's furious face swam in the front of her vision, refusing to part from her thoughts.

"You are safe here. He cannot touch you as long as you remain within the church walls," came the Archdeacon's kind voice, a note of hope laced throughout, hoping to ease the burden Belle carried upon her shoulders. "Might I inquire as to whom this mysterious person is?" he asked, though he chuckled.

Belle smiled in spite of the tremendous guilt she felt. "I want him to have the best life, even if I can't be a part of it, even though it sounds like a dream that's too good to be true, but I was never destined to have a good life, Your Grace. I know. A life without someone to love is no life worth living, I can see it in your eyes, Father, but what else am I to do? He cannot be with me, no matter how much we want it. You know it's funny, I'd always dreamed of finding my own Prince Charming, just like in the fairy tales in the books that I read, but I never thought my life would come to this. My Prince Charming is a kind, handsome, sweet man with a few…deformities, but I don't see any of that when I look at him. I know others do, though, and it breaks my heart that's all they can focus on is his deformities and his red hair. They can't see the sweet, kind, gentle soul that he really is. Of princes, there are few, of men with crowns taken by force there are many. I call your bell ringer a prince, though he does not see himself as such, was put on this earth to be a light in the darkness, though to shine amid such terror is his own personal hell for him, to me, he is perfect. I would have followed him anywhere in this world or other, hardship or fair sailing."

The only sound that could be heard was the scratching of his quill.

Belle continued. "It's now my duty as the woman he loves to keep his flame alive when the storms come, to ward off those consumed with jealous pride or hatred over his condition and what he is. To give my life for him in every mortal realm is the only honor I seek, to be the one who protects him when the darkness comes, like it is about to now. Gaston is going to be here any minute, I just know it. So, do you, and after that…I don't know if I can protect him anymore. But I'm going to die trying, Father, I swear it. Perhaps one day, there will be a place of safety, an Eden, a place of rest and joy where he and I can live our lives together in comfort, knowing we are safe. I can only pray for it, Father. Your cathedral's bell ringer…there's something about him that I love. He can see right through and pull forth the goodness in my heart; show me what matters and what to let go. When I first met him, all my doubts were the thing I let free. I couldn't believe it when I did. And I love him so very much for that. Growing up, as a child, my Papa would read me stories, full of fanciful touches like magic, handsome princes in disguise, a witch or wizard to help the hero in need, a damsel in distress that needs rescuing...you get the idea. But lately, I've discovered a lot of fairy tales are not for the children, but for the parents. A story of what parental neglect and emotional indifference does to a young child, leading the children into a dark place and robbing them of even the most meager trail home… the route to love and emotional safety, trust, self-esteem. Some stories are for the children, but some are really for the parents, the adults of this world. Including me."

Belle paused to catch her breath, and heard the Archdeacon let out an amused little sigh.

"What's your story, my child? You have been with us but only two weeks, and save for one," here he chuckled, and the young woman knew he was thinking of the church's bell ringer, "we know very little about you."

Belle blinked, not having anticipated the question. "My story was never meant to be a fairy tale, as much as I might wish for one. Papa chastises me for losing myself in my books, but it's the only escape I get from my hellish life. I was never meant to experience happiness or joy. My life was doomed from the moment I met my husband in the marketplace. Forced into a life of servitude, I have no choice but to obey the commands given to me. There's only one way out if I want out of this marriage for good. Death. I've never been afraid of monsters and isn't that ironic. And yet…I do believe monsters exist. You, see, I knew a monster once. I might have even loved him once. Gaston is my monster to fight, no one else's. You cannot help me with this, Quasi can't help me, and nor can Phoebus. Oh, I know wives are meant to love their husbands, but how can I? After the things he's done to me, the things he's said to shatter my confidence and my soul. The things he did to me, Your Grace…"

"Did your husband lay a hand upon you?" The Archdeacon's voice grew clipped and hard. Belle could recognize he was losing his patience and growing angered, though not at her, at the thought of harm befalling their latest visitor within these stone walls.

"Gaston has deep brown eyes, and a smile nearly identical to my own that was enough to captivate anyone who happened to be fortunate enough to look upon them, and at him. He was a blessing in disguise and your worst nightmare all in one. I thanked God every night for my own monster before I knew any better. My monster didn't have sharp talons or vicious fangs. The only thing sharp about him was the knife that made this gash. My monster wasn't green or purple. He didn't even like the color purple. That's why he made me have all the purple on my arms. My skin has ruptured above the growing purple blooms. Every movement I make hurts, Father. In the past, I've healed from a…stubborn willfulness, you might say, a determination to survive whatever my husband could throw my way, and if I survived, I would endure another day at the man's side, just grateful to be alive. But this time, as I stretch forwards, attempting to imagine a future for myself, there is nothing there. I have no reserve to call upon, for when the soul shatters, is there even a cure? I am battered on the inside, Your Grace, worse than any broken bones he could ever give me. My monster didn't come out and scare me after I'd fallen asleep. No, my monster only scared me when we were alone. He gave me bad dreams too, though, so I guess there is that. But I didn't make my monster leave, like the case with normal childhood monsters growing up. No, my monster made me leave, he made me flee from him in terror, and now I find that in order to ensure my father's safety, he has bid me return home, and I cannot. Gaston didn't want me anymore, so I ran, Father. Every night, I would ask him a question. I would ask him if he loved me, and he never responded."

"I cannot imagine what that might be like you for, my child. I am...sorry," the Archdeacon said after a long pause.

Belle nodded. "And now…your bell ringer, it's…complicated, Father. I might even be in love with him now. There isn't a moment that I'm awake that Quasi isn't in my thoughts. The last few nights, he is there in my dreams, always out of reach, just like in real life. I'd give anything to be the recipient of his affections, to hang onto his words and laugh at his jokes. I won't be, though. He looks my way and I blush. He speaks to me and I splutter something non-coherent in return. Every time he sits next to me, I feel my skin begin to break out into a cold sweat. The other night, when we…when we kissed, ah, but I _knew_ it was wrong, and yet...I could not seem to stop myself. It was like...like my body was no longer taking direction from my mind, Your Grace. I could see the longing in his eyes, Father, as if he longed for more, to go further, but didn't want to put any pressure on me to make that decision. Oh, how I want it more than anything, to spend a night in his arms, in love's embrace, even if it's just once before Gaston kills me for what I have done, for betraying our marriage in this light. How wonderful it must be, to be with someone who really, truly loves you. I've never known love, Father. But I can't do that to him. He deserves so much better than me. Quasi permeates my every thought. Each time I do something, I rehearse how to tell him the news, that I love him, and I cannot do this to him anymore, I cannot lie to the man that I love, that I want him to come with me, run away, far from Gaston and his filth, because the only way out of this hellish marriage is death. 'Family is all that matters,' that's what he tells me every night. But even now, I imagine what Quasi will say and his reaction to my confession and rehearse my response. As I do so, my mind's eye sees how the light plays on his pale skin, how his brilliant red hair glints in the light."

More scratching, and Belle smiled as she recognized the old man on the other side of the booth was doing all that he could to write down her every word.

"Each time he smiles, I feel the rush of warmth, the spark of hope for something between he and I, but this is a fool's hope. Seeing him makes my heart twirl. Hearing his magnificent voice makes my stomach flutter. I can't help but feel this way about him. His eyes, those deep rich pools of blue with just a fleck of gold at the irises, how they tell a story just by looking into them. My God. And the way he moves. He walks along, effortlessly looking handsome without a care in the world. I stop to look at him and admire his perfection as I know that's as far as I could ever get. Oh, I know he has his deformities and he's self-conscious about it, but when I look at him…I don't see it, Father. I don't. I choose to focus on his face, and his eyes, not his looks. I close my eyes sometimes and imagine his hand brushing against mine as we walk down the streets of the marketplace. I don't care if the people stare, let them, the simple-minded fools. Everyone's eyes are fixed on us, but I don't give a _damn_ what they think, and neither should he. When I'm around him, it feels like he is my heaven and feels like I've died, and if I could ever be lucky enough to get to spend at eternity with him at my side, content to sink into serenity as long as he is with me, that's the best dream I could have ever asked for. Oh, no, not you too! Don't you start it too! I told Sister Alice this earlier and they started crying. I never pegged you for an emotional man, Father, you're quite impassive at the best of times," Belle chuckled. "I think they're happy for Quasi, and I hope so, but I can't undo what I'm about to do to him. I have no other choice. The only way to save his life is to break his heart, and I hate this. Father, I don't know what to do about all this, and oh, God…that's the worst part about all of this, I think. Whatever good he sees in me is going to disappear in a few short minutes before my husband returns to take me home. Gaston is an abusive man, Your Grace."

"I do not blame you for coming here, my dear," the Archdeacon sympathized.

Belle stifled a low growl in the back of her throat. "He's just like Claude Frollo was to poor Quasi. The Judge was an insane man near the end of his days leading up to his death. Only an insane man would commit acts of mass genocide and incite terror into the minds of the innocent people. In every great thing we do, the psychopath hides, wolves among the sheep. But that's okay. It is, because soon they'll just be wolves among lions, and the people will outnumber them, the people like Claude Frollo used to be. The people will swamp them, and then a man like Gaston will pretend to be one of us, one of the people on the side of all that is righteous and good, simply was misled along the wrong path. I will let him retreat, but I will always know what kind of man he is. A man like my husband, Gaston, he craves power, wealth, and money, and will obtain it by any means necessary. His favorite is hunting. He's a bit of an expert on the subject. And as his wife… I can't do it. All my life, I've been an outcast. I didn't ask for this life. It chose me. I hide behind a beautiful smile and I have been forced to reinvent myself. I won't be a part of this anymore. I won't do it. I'm out. The house that you call home is no longer my home. I have no home anymore, but it matters not. As soon as Gaston and Captain Phoebus get here in a moment, he's going to arrest me probably, but not before I tell Quasi the truth about me, who I really, what I've done, and how I cannot keep doing this to him anymore. Gaston can't make me become the demon. I won't."

Even Belle was surprised at the determination laced throughout her voice.

"You have a choice. You can tell him no, that you refuse," the Archdeacon of Josas offered kindly.

Belle nodded, allowing a lock of wavy dark hair to tumble in front of her face, effectively shielding her face like a curtain. "Tonight is the first time in my adult life that I'm standing up to a man who claims to love me, and has uttered naught but lies from his lips. Gaston, if you're listening to this somehow, if you're already here in Notre Dame hiding in the shadows like the weasel you are, hear me. You're going to have to kill me. You said you loved me, and I took you at your word. You said I was your wife, and over the year that we were married, you became part of the bedrock of my personality, whether I liked it or not. Then, the day that you raised your hand against me, and defiled every ounce of dignity I had left when you…when we…consummated our marriage, I _hated_ you. It would have been kinder to just kill me. Now I must be this person filled with a bitterness I can't control. The girl you thought you knew, the one you met in the marketplace all those years ago underneath the apple blossom tree, the one with the big eyes and the even bigger heart is now consumed by a hatred she never knew could take root in her soul. But because of you, here it is, festering deep within. And here we are. Here I am with no other choice left to me. This hate I feel for you, Gaston, my hate doesn't ebb, it multiples. This last thought breaks my heart, Father. I know it is wrong to walk this path, yet I have no other choice."

"There is always a choice, child," the Archdeacon reminded Belle kindly, his soothing baritone voice floating through the confessional like a kind wind.

But Belle shook her head. "Were that I could believe you, monsieur. For he is my husband, for better or worse. He gave me a ring. I gave him my word." Belle swallowed and blinked back briny tears. "All that remains now is my choice. To stay here, where I know I will be safe. Or to dare to return home, to Gaston, where he will most assuredly kill me for what I have done, and in doing so, I can ensure my father's safety." She choked back a half-formed sob.

"What will you decide?" the Archdeacon pressed her kindly, to which Belle felt she could not give an apt response.

She sighed, blinking back more tears that threatened to escape the corners of her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision. "The…the choice I must make is simple. But it isn't. And…I don't know what to do…it feels like I walk this fine line of good and evil with this decision I find myself faced with, but…on which side shall I fall?"

_What choice will I make?_


	2. This is Not Home

**Chapter One**

Belle barely stifled a half choked sob of misery as her hand grazed the top of Gaston's as he helped her from the carriage. "Welcome, milady, to my… _our_ new home," he corrected quickly, flashing her a brilliant smile that his new little wife could not quite return. She tried, though it faltered quite quickly.

Every now and again, like she was doing right now, Belle had taken to wearing a fake smile. Papa was often fond of telling her that no one would want to be with a depressed girl. So, the depression sat behind the mask and her heart prayed for a soul who wasn't Gaston Dupont to notice how miserable Belle was.

So…she put on a fake smile to hide her pain from the few Belle had in her life, namely Maurice and their old horse, Phillipe, who cared about her. The reason she did this was that she did not want to worry them. However, ever since their marriage, the pain for poor Belle was becoming quite unbearable to her.

It hurt her even now to fake a smile. She inhaled a sharp breath of cool autumnal air as she glanced around at Gaston's home. She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat as Gaston met her gaze and stared deep into her brown eyes, determined not to look away first. Belle was certain that her husband knew that his wife was trying to hide something from him, but still…she was determined to fool Gaston.

Belle contorted her lips in an awkward little half-smile, but her cheeks were not so compromising. She could feel their reluctance to be molded falsely, and she visibly cringed, breathing a sigh of relief, as Gaston finally averted his gaze, and her smile fell lifeless, allowing her face to return to its usual cold look of passive indifference. She glanced around, becoming aware of her father's gaze piercing the back of her skull like a hot branding iron as she looked around at their new home. This little cottage, which, she supposed under better circumstances, she would have been quite thrilled to live in…with anyone _but_ Gaston.

The cottage crouched low into the grassy embankment, as though it were trying to hide, but the slightly misshapen slate roof was far too large to go unnoticed. Through the darkness, she could see the coarse, unevenly sized, gray stones that made up her new home's walls. As she got closer, the occasional flash of color—some blues, others green or brown—emerged from the gray stone that looked like eyes trying to steal a glimpse of the world out there.

Gaston's cottage hunkered low like a child in the elements trying to keep warm. Yet, it looked alive and welcoming, with a thin silver trail curling from the crooked stone chimney. The sides were the same gray slab as the low walls in the dales, and the roof was a darker slate. Without so much as a thought as to who was inside, given Gaston and Maurice were out here with her, Belle lifted her chin in defiance and strode towards the door, flinging it wide open with a flourish.

The inside was old, dusty, could have used a good cleaning a week or two ago, but on the whole, even Belle had to admit, Gaston's cottage looked rather welcoming inside. A tiny stove, two small wooden chairs, a circular table, a not-so-large mattress, and that was quite it. Simplistic, but it would be enough.

A hand upon her left shoulder caused Belle to jump and she turned, a furtive, guilty look on her face. "Papa," she whispered, hating hearing the dip and crack in her voice as she fought back the onset of tears. She heaved a small sigh of frustration as she reached up a hand and clutched his hand within hers.

Her father was the only sole reason she had agreed to Gaston's proposal in the first place, and even now, as Belle looked upon her father, Maurice grew even more wrinkled with each day, looking as though he had too much skin to cover his wilting frame. His face had lost its healthy sun-kissed color, fading now to an ashy gray, looking as though dust had begun to gather on his aging and slightly rotting, old body. Belle could remember as a little girl, when her Papa had looked to her the most powerful man in the village, when he'd hair more hair back then. But now… the inventor and painter had lost his youthful and handsome looks.

Though Maurice was clean-shaven, and his thick white hair trimmed short, revealing a decrepit mask where every wrinkle, blemish, and imperfection could be seen upon Maurice's tired face. His daughter hurt whenever Belle looked at her Papa like this. She wanted to remember the man he had been before Gaston had come into their lives, the strong willed and merciful inventor, who went out of his way to help their neighbors whenever something ailed them, the gentle, caring father.

Yet, when she looked upon her father now, all she could see was a wizened and somewhat frightened old man. As she looked upon Maurice, Belle could not help but to wonder if her Papa was more scared of living or of dying. He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"You will be happy here, with Gaston, Belle," Maurice offered up quietly, and Belle bit her bottom lip in a slight pout as Gaston sauntered into the room, looking smug and quite proud of himself. As usual.

"Maurice, old fellow," came Gaston's baritone voice, which commanded the presence of the entire room. "I should…like a word with my wife, if you please." He folded his thick arms across his chest and quirked a brow the old man's way. He tossed a pouch of coins onto the small wooden table by Maurice.

Belle's father glanced down at the pouch, and back towards his new son-in-law, and furrowed his white brows into a frown. Gaston continued that infuriatingly charming smile of his that Belle knew had captivated the old man. Her father was blind to the hunter's true nature, and she could not bring her father to know of the truth, for it would most assuredly kill him, to learn the things Gaston had said.

"Perhaps…you wouldn't mind wandering into town and fetching some…eggs and bread," Gaston drawled, swiveling his head lazily as he pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards, though never once as he did so did he remove his gaze from his wife's, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Belle or Maurice.

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown as she looked at Maurice, his wizened face and a back that was beginning to slightly hunch, causing him to stand and sit stooped the more her father aged as days passed.

With each movement as he shuffled forward, mumbling something incoherent under his breath as he moved to take the pouch of coins, there was the creak of old bones. Poor old Maurice had the resigned look of one who knew that at his age, life has stopped giving and only takes away. The light from the flames coming from the fireplace's hearth that Gaston had lit illuminated Belle's father's tired, worn face.

His expression was one of fatigue and frustration, that he had failed as an esteemed inventor and painter, that he could not provide for his only child the life that he had promised Belle's mother she would have. The world now seemed to hold no place for Maurice. He had had enough. This man was one with stories to tell, experience danced upon his lips like a curious child, and only Belle cared to ever listen. So, he stayed silent. His listless eyes watched, not telling, the fire adorning his skin as his inquisitive gaze flitted from Belle to Gaston. Gaston gave a curt nod, his gray eyes narrowing, and Maurice swallowed.

"I will return in an hour, then," Maurice warbled, his hand curling into a claw as he clasped a withered, gnarled hand upon Belle's shoulder and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, as best he could with his pained joints, his lumbago was the silent killer in his nights, and now, most of Maurice's days, as well.

He shuffled noisily towards the door, mumbling to himself under his breath as he gathered his cloak off the wooden coat stand Gaston waited until the front door of his cottage shut before turning towards Belle.

Belle could not help but practically pout as her gaze lingered upon the closed door as her father set off on Gaston's meaningless errand. They all knew it was merely an excuse for him to vacate the premises.

So that her father would not bear witness to the unspeakable cruelties Gaston would unleash upon his 'precious little wife.' Belle flinched as a bemused sort of chuckle escaped her husband's lips as he spread his arms out beside him, gesturing towards the inside of his home. "I hope it suits your needs, and you will find everything to your liking here," he began, his tone sounding courteous, though Belle was not fooled.

She could practically see the venom dripping from his words, like that of poisoned honey. She flinched and shirked away from her husband's touch as he put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in close to her neck, inhaling the scent of pine wood and something floral. "You are…a very elegant woman, Belle," Gaston noted in his low voice, heavy with desire for his wife, and she cringed to think what came next.

Gaston kept his hand planted firmly upon Belle's shoulder and moved his other to the small of her back, closing off the gap of space between them and pulling her closer to him, so that she was pressed up against his chiseled chest, so perfect and molded to perfection, as if God Himself had crafted Gaston from the heavens. Belle swallowed nervously, almost afraid to even acknowledge his presence, but she knew it would be worse for her if she did not. She was willing to put up with much, but…anything but this.

Improving her posture as she stood up straighter, trapped within the confines of his embrace, she had to crane her neck upward to look at Gaston, her brows furrowed into a frown. Belle hoped that Gaston had a reasonable explanation for sending Maurice away 'for eggs and bread' and that he would tell her soon.

She swallowed hard as she met Gaston's gaze. There was no point in Belle trying to deny that her husband was a handsome man, for he was. He had tousled dark brown hair, which was thick and lustrous. His eyes were a mesmerizing deep ocean blue, flecks of silvery light throughout. His face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. He had dark eyebrows, which sloped downwards in a serious expression.

His usually playful smile had drawn into a hard line across his face. His perfect lips ripe for the kissing, though Belle would have happily given that task along to any other girl but her. His strong hands, slightly rough from working, held tightly onto Belle's in a vice grip as he stared deep into his wife's eyes. Belle couldn't help but blush at the scrutiny of his gaze, and she hated herself for it. His smile etched its way back into his face. His body was warm and toned as he hugged her, comforting to the touch, though it made Belle tremble beneath it. His voice was deep, with a serious tone. His lips brushed against her ear as he spoke, "I really do care for you."

Her face fell, crestfallen. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly and naively so, that Gaston might have changed following their marriage, and could at least bring himself to say the word that carried so much meaning, but even upon their wedding night, it had felt more of a formality than anything else to her.

Belle's lips parted open slightly to speak, and apparently, Gaston took his wife's almost-response as an invitation, because before the young woman could even process what was happening, he had grabbed hold of her waist, his fingers coming to grip almost painfully tight upon her waist, was lifting her up off the ground as though she hardly weighed anything at all, and had placed her upon the wooden table.

His kiss was hot, fiery, demanding, and aggressive, and Belle could feel her eyes fling wide open in shock. Gaston's kiss was rough and uninviting, and poor Belle hardly had a moment to react before he pressed his tongue to the seam of her lips, and, in part thanks to her stunned behavior, was granted access, and delved inside her mouth. It was a very sloppy kiss with the strong scent of old wine being exchanged in the intermingling of his breaths. Gaston had no doubt been drinking with LeFou in the tavern earlier.

On their wedding night, Belle had expected tingles and desire, for that burning feeling to linger upon her lips that she had read about in her books whenever a man kissed a maiden, but in the end, she could only describe Gaston's kiss as sloppy and wet. She had no desire to come back for another kiss than she did to kiss Phillipe.

His tongue was something like a muscular eel worming its way into her mouth and when she opened her mouth to try to find some way to communicate to her husband what he was doing was not right, but as soon as she did, her husband took the opportunity to shove his tongue even deeper inside her mouth and kiss her deeper. Belle let out a frantic muffled whimper of fear as Gaston pushed her roughly back onto the table, never minding or seemingly not caring that this was where they ate, climbing on top of her, and continuing his rather forceful kiss. The distraught woman couldn't even speak like this.

Not with his mouth covering hers, and she wasn't even sure what she would say if he did break it off. Knowing she wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise as long as Gaston continued kissing her like this, she put her hands on his broad shoulders and tried to push him away and off of her and the table.

Belle let out a cry of pain as his other hand not currently finding purchase in her tresses, drifted down just slightly and pinned her hand to the table, his large stocky build threatening to crush her against the table, and if he broke it, then they would need a new one, and Gaston would blame her for 'tempting' him. And now, not only could Belle not cry for help or beg for her husband to stop, she couldn't move.

"You know what you do to me," Gaston growled, his voice husky and heavy with desire, as he ran his large hands over the curves of her body, the pads of his fingertips ghosting along her prominent collarbones. "This is _your_ fault, my darling. I wouldn't do this to you if I didn't care for you so much…"

Belle let out a muffled squeak, too terrified to even articulate any words at this moment. Even their wedding night had not been like this, though she had fought Gaston tooth and nail until she couldn't.

Between her whimpers that were smothered by his mouth covering hers, all Belle could manage to verbally communicate was tiny, uncertain, cries of fear that she knew would only entice him to continue.

Gaston finally pulled apart, exhaling through his nose, his nostrils flaring like a ravaged wild beast as he continued moving his hands beneath the skirts of her gown. Belle clenched her eyes shut and violently turned her head to the right as she felt behind her, knocking over a candle in a candelabra, both items landing on the floor with a loud clanging noise, but Gaston didn't even seem to notice the disturbance.

He clearly did not care if they were discovered in a compromising position—on the _table_ , no less, or was just too caught up in the moment to think about what was happening around the two of them. Gaston ignored Belle's pitiful cries for him to stop what he was doing, raking his fingers through her hair, the other hand running beneath her skirts, against her thighs, across her stomach, to her chest.

"G—Gaston, please, don't do this…" Belle whispered in a slightly shaking voice as she placed both hands on his chest and weakly tried to push her husband off of her, to no avail. She knew this was hopeless. Belle bit her bottom lip in a pout as she could feel her entire body betray her and shake. "I...if you truly care for me, _don't_."

Why would Gaston do this to her? During their year of courtship, he'd never once been inappropriate with her, until their wedding night, as his voice had whispered sweet nothings into the shell of her ear, his voice as soft as thunder, tearing all of Belle's hopes apart, turning her dreams of what could have been into shame, and then the tiger within him had emerged for good. All of this…his changes had been so sudden.

It wasn't like him at all. Belle exhaled a shaking breath and closed her eyes. Gaston was not going to let her go, and this only ignited the panic that had begun to well deep within the pit of her stomach, creating an uncomfortable churning feeling that caused her stomach to lurch, and for a moment, she thought she might vomit. "D—don't hurt me," she gasped out in a choked, frightened whisper, feeling more trapped and hopeless by the second. She almost— _almost_ —wished that her father would return and find her.

No matter how much it would break his already fragile heart, she did not want Gaston to do this to her. Belle bit her bottom lip hard enough to bleed as she blinked back stinging tears that blurred her vision. She never thought she would have to beg Gaston not to do what she knew he was about to do to her.

"I won't hurt you, Belle." Gaston sounded quite out of breath as he pulled apart slightly to study her face, ignoring Belle's hands pressing against his burly chest as she continued her vain efforts to shove Gaston off of her. Surely, he had to have known she stood no chance against his unmatched strength.

Belle whimpered and clenched her eyes shut, turning her head slightly to the left at the thought of Gaston's betrayal and she bit her bottom lip and scrunched her face in disgust. She had never felt so betrayed. Belle kept her gaze off of Gaston. She could not bear to look his way and she let out a pained cry of surprise as his hand came up to grip painfully tight on her waist and gave it a hard, demanding squeeze. She could not— _would not_ —look her husband in the eye, because if she did, then she thought she was apt to throw up all over the man's red leather jerkin. Disgust. Total disgust was what she felt.

She tried to keep herself from crying as she felt Gaston's hands push up underneath the skirts of her gown, trying and failing to be gentle with the fabric. He wasn't exactly being rough with Belle, but she, as his wife, had begged of her husband not to do this, and he had shown _complete_ disregard for her honor.

It broke her heart that Gaston, a man who claimed to profess his 'love' for her on a daily basis, would betray her in such a way that was emotionally shattered to her already broken heart. Belle breathed in a ragged, slightly shaking breath and blinked back her tears as she closed her eyes, hoping futilely that she could take her mind somewhere else, anything and anywhere to escape the swells of fiery burning pain.

Balling her delicate hands into fists, Belle pushed uselessly at Gaston's broad chest one last time and finally gave up with a frustrated little whimper, clenching her eyes shut and turning her head sharply to the left to avoid looking Gaston in the eyes. She did not want to see him light up with power and lust.

Fighting back was not doing her any good in this situation. Gaston was not going to let her go. Belle let out a shudder that traveled down her spine and let out a choked sob. She still could not quite believe Gaston was capable of doing this to her. He had seemed so charming during their courtship, but…

But he clearly was, and there was not a thing Belle was going to do to be able to stop the man from taking what, by law, was rightfully his, for it was her duty as his 'precious little wife' to do as he bade her.

Belle ignored his light and surprisingly tender touches and brought her hands up to shield her face, sobbing, hoping that what he was doing to her would be over soon. _God forgive me_ , she thought. _I cannot stay here, for to stay here with Gaston is killing me. Papa and I can find another way. I should kill myself if he touches me again like this_ , she thought, and let out a pained cry as she felt him violently tug on a fistful of her hair, and pulling her head back slightly to expose the pale column of her throat.

Belle knew what she had to do.

She had to flee. Tonight.


	3. To Say Goodbye

**Chapter Two**

It was time. The time Belle knew would come sooner or later but dreaded. Gaston had gone out to the tavern to drink himself under the table with LeFou (as per his usual customs most nights), and Belle swallowed past the lump forming in her throat as she realized she had to say goodbye to the only person that she felt cared about her, to the only person she had ever felt truly happy with. To her own father.

 _How am I supposed to do it without feeling like I've lost a part of myself?_ Belle bit down on her bottom lip and gingerly tapped her father on the shoulder, stepping back slightly as he roused from his sleep. "I—I have to say goodbye, Papa," she breathed, hating hearing the crack in her voice as tears welled and gathered at the corners of her eyes. "Gaston is…a brute, Papa." Her voice trailed off as she looked away.

But she inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs, making it difficult to leave. "I know," Maurice answered gravely, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as something akin to anger darted through his kind orbs. "I have for a while."

"Y—you _knew_?" Belle gasped, feeling her mouth drop open slightly in shock. "Th—then why did you not…?" In the gloom of the dimly lit little cottage, Belle wanted to whisper to her father, to tell Maurice the bad news gently.

He deserved that. Belle had prepared an entire conversation, a way to inform her father that she was temporarily leaving. Maurice must have known it was coming, for she could see the hurt welling in his green eyes behind that forced smile. His usual steady gaze flickered from his daughter's face towards the wedding band she wore on her left hand.

Maurice sighed, blinking back his own tears as his gnarled hand, clawed from years of hard work in his prime as both a painter and inventor, clasped over Belle's and gave it as hard a squeeze as he could, though for poor old Maurice, it was difficult for him. "Because I did not want you to worry more than you already were, and for that, the fault is mine. I should never have allowed you to agree to this union. I should have…taken you away from Paris, from France, even. The pain that I carry in my chest when I look at you these days, Belle, is…inexplicable. I know that your marriage to Gaston was primarily for my benefit, but…I am an old man, and I have lived my life, and because of you, it has been a good one. More than a foolish old codger like me deserves, my dear," Maurice chuckled.

Before Belle could so much as open her mouth to protest his last statement, Maurice shook his head and continued.

"Seeing you get away from me hurts, more than you know. Even though I want to hold you and keep you by my side for a longer time, it seems like you keep drifting farther and farther away from me. As much as I know it's the best for me, for you and for everyone, I didn't expect you to get out of my life someday. I'll never forget the moments you laughed with me, cried with me, helped me. Different from the others, I don't regret any of those memories. Thank you for everything. I hope you find your happiness out there, Belle. For I am old, and I have lived my life, and now…you must live yours for _you_ , my dear."

Belle swallowed hard, unable to stop that one single tear from running down her cheeks in a gentle tract.

"I…leaving you here alone is killing me, Papa, as sure as a dagger would stop my beating heart. But…I think that if I am to survive, it is the only way, Papa. If there was no hope at all, I would stay by your side, and choose to die in the dark, for without you by my side, Papa, then I should choose not to exist, for you to leave me alone to fend off Gaston's advances would be a fate crueler than death itself. If I stay…I lose you for certain. I do not know how, but I think that Gaston would leverage your health against me. But if I flee this place, then…there is the chance that one day we could be together again, and live a life of peace. I pray that you understand, Papa, and I wish that there was something…" She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, being careful to be mindful of the tendons in his fingers. "Come with me," Belle breathed, her dark eyes widening at the suggestion. "Oh, come with me, Papa, and leave this place! Please!"

Maurice's eyes grew wide and round and he rapidly shook his head in response, much to his daughter's immense disappointment. "No. I cannot. I am old. I am weak, Belle, and I would not last the walk to…wherever you're going."

Belle flinched, suddenly feeling guilty. Even she had no idea where she would go once she had fled from her new…home, only that distance was the only thing that would matter and getting as far away from Gaston as possible. She hadn't quite thought ahead to that part. _One step at a time_ , her conscience reminded herself helpfully. That as much as she longed to stay with Maurice and care for his in his frail and aging state, if she stayed here, Gaston would surely kill her, whether by his own hand or hers, Belle did not know, nor did she wish to find out.

There was such sadness in Maurice's eyes that did not match the smile that formed upon his lined, ancient face, that Belle could hardly bear it.

"Try not to think of the leaving part," Belle whispered, leaning forward, and pressing her lips to his forehead in a gentle kiss that lingered. "Though I leave you, Papa, I _will_ return," she answered, feeling her resolve returning to her in a brief moment of strength. "I give you my _word_ ," Belle promised. "I _will_ come back for you. I _promise_. Our lives together are like circles, spiraling into one big giant mess," she chuckled, remembering fondly back on all the times she would return to the house to find yet another explosion had occurred within the confines of the cellar.

"That they are, my dear," Maurice smiled sadly, clasping his hand over top hers, though his grip slackened, and he reluctantly removed his hand from his daughter. "You should go," he urged. "You will have the cover of the moonlight. Stick to the edge of the woods if you can. Gaston will think to look for you if you follow the main path into Paris."

Belle gave a swift nod of her head, signaling that she understood, and packed the last few of her belongings, which was not much. A handkerchief, her wedding ring she had contemplated leaving behind somewhere conspicuous for Gaston to find but decided against it. If she left behind any evidence that she had willingly fled from him, there was a strong possibility the hunter and former war captain would take it out on her father. That she simply could not allow.

She darted haphazardly through the little two room cottage with tears streaming down her face. She did not want to leave the one person behind that made Belle feel loved. All of this was soon going to be gone the minute she crossed the threshold of the entryway of Gaston's cottage and out into the unfamiliar world of Paris, France, on her own. Alone. Belle flung her arms around Maurice's neck and hugged her father, sobbing into his chest. She did not want to let go, because the inventor's daughter knew that if she relinquished her grip upon her father, she would not be able to hold him again.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to do this without you, Papa," Belle cried, whispering it into the shell of his ear. She stifled a half choked sob of anguish out of the back of her throat as she listened to her father's response to her cry. "My entire life up until this point, you have always been by my side. I do not think I have strength enough for this."

"Ah, my dear," he sighed. "That is where you are wrong, and as your father, I must correct you. I'll be there with you, Belle. Even if you won't be able to see me. I'll always be with you. In _here_ ," Maurice added, placing a frail and slightly shaking hand upon her heart." And just like that as he pulled away, Belle was left with the slightest flicker of hope. It was not very big, quite small. Just a flicker against a bitter cold wind, but it was going to have to be enough.

Belle swallowed, blinking back briny tears as she pulled away from Maurice and gripped his hand tightly. "I love you," she whispered, hating hearing the crack and dip in her voice, and with one last tear shedding down her face, she let go of his hand, gathered her belongings in the small satchel Maurice had helped her to pack and bolted for the front door. This was it. This was goodbye. She ambled her way to the door and just before she grasped onto the handle, Belle risked one last glance at her ailing father one last time, wishing that this would all just be a dream she would wake from.

But it wasn't. This was the dire situation of her new reality, and reality was hurting her more than her nightmares. Belle gingerly closed the door of Gaston's cottage behind her and did the only thing that she could as she walked.

She was smart enough not to look back.

* * *

Belle, true to her word to stay safe, kept to the woods that lay at the edge of the village's borders as she descended into the dark woods, walking down the dirt paths, feeling rough cracks and twigs through the thin soles of her boots.

The wind which carried the bitter Parisian autumnal breeze moved as though Belle were not there at all, as if she were a ghost and nothing more. Through the canopy of the trees came an eerie melancholy sort of a tune, all of it with as much flow as winter ice.

And all at once, Belle felt like the very air that surrounded her in these unfamiliar accursed woods that she was sure to get lost in if she could not find her way felt like water, and she felt as though she were drowning in this sea of indifference, desperate to swim up beyond the cloudy night skies to the bright stars above.

Belle exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose, her lips parted open slightly as she breathed in cold bursts of fresh air. She lifted her head to the heavens above and spoke to Maurice, though she knew her Papa could not hear. "There is such sadness in leaving a place of strong love, a place where fond memories grew as fast as the clover in the grass. I know I will savor each memory so strongly that it will almost live once more. I know that the strands of love will keep us together even when we are far apart. I only have to reach out with my mind and there you are, waiting to shower me with the love you always did. But right now, it is my time to depart, to do what I was born to do, to make the changes and the sacrifices that are necessary. Don't think that me leaving means I love you less, know that it means I love you more. And…I _will_ come back for you, Papa. I promise. I gave you my word. We _will_ see each other again."

Taking another deep breath to steel her nerves, Belle stared at the path at her fed, as it led into the darkness of the woods. Yet follow it she had to, for the sake of her own life, and to ensure her father's safety from Gaston's wrath. And so, her feet followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. She let her hands ghost against the gnarled bark as Belle passed each tree, which seemed more giant to her than the previous one she passed.

Belle could swear the trees were talking to each other, as their trunks and limbs seemed to sway in the breeze, making low groaning sounds. She shuddered and shook her head vehemently to try to rid her mind of such thoughts. _Trees can't talk, Belle. You have indulged in too many fantastical books during your childhood. It's affected my mind. Grow up_ , she scolded herself, feeling her fingers curl into a tight protective fist over the strap of her satchel.

It felt as though the trees' gentle spirits were trying to soothe her own. For this was their world as the trees stretched towards the light they never would see and yet they sensed, and Belle knew to get anywhere, she would have to do the same. To open up her mind and her other senses. To sound, to aroma, and listen so very carefully to every instinct.

With a startled cry of surprise, Belle let out a squeak of fear as she stumbled over what appeared to be a twisted tree root, or more likely, if she was being honest with herself, it was probably her own foot. The roots in these woods appeared to at times, have a mind of their own, at least, Belle's overactive imagination was leading her to believe that.

It had to have been at least an hour since she had parted ways with her father and bade him a temporary farewell, and it seemed like she had been lost in this forsaken forest for quite some time now. Time did not flow clearly here. The tree branches above Belle's head were so thick that even now she could no longer tell if it was night or day. Everything here was so incredibly disorienting. Something was certainly off about these woods, though what it was, even Belle could not formulate an apt response in her mind as to why the forest was making her feel the way that it was.

Though if Belle were being completely honest with herself, she had perhaps been overconfident in her initial assessment that she could easily make her way through the forest, as long as she stayed on the path. That was easy. She had been confident that as long as she followed the dirt path in the woods that (hopefully) headed towards Paris, then she would be safe and just fine. But now…she was most assuredly not fine. These damned woods made no sense at all, and Belle very quickly into her journey soon found herself lost. Lost, alone, and very much frightened and afraid. Stepping into the woods robbed the brunette of one sense and heightened all the others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears of a wolf and…oh, _wolves_! There was rumored to be wolves in this forest, ones who wouldn't hesitate to eat her alive if given the chance should she have the unfortunate luck to stumble across one of them.

Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy in her ears. Her sense of smell was sensitized, the loam in the earth and the decomposing of the fall leaves that fell from their branches to join their fallen brethren on the ground made the atmosphere in the woods close and thick. The blackness nurtured within Belle a horrible sense of claustrophobia inside her, though the woodland seemed to stretch on for miles with seemingly no end in sight for the poor lost girl.

The narrow path that Belle had chosen to follow, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. There was no map for Belle to follow, but even if she had been in possession of one, the perpetual dark would have prevented the young inventor's daughter from using it to guide her way out of this forsaken place. The barren branches of the trees spiked into the sky—no sign of life other than Belle to be found anywhere, a fact which greatly unnerved her. It was so dark, as she reached out a hand in front of her, blindly groping in the hopes she would find something—anything to rest her hand upon and guide her way, she could barely see where she was going. There was only the sound of the rustling branches and the eerie howl of the wind at her back. Belle did not know what lay ahead of her in this dark forest, or what new life awaited her once she reached the inner city of Paris.

But what she did know was that it wasn't going to be a pleasant journey. Belle stifled a groan as she forced herself to take one step forward, and then another. Her feet hurt, screaming within her boots, the forming blisters on the backs of her heels begging her to stop and rest, and she felt tired, so incredibly exhausted, stressed, and quite frankly, overwhelmed. But Belle felt a surge of determination course through her veins and she clenched her jaw shut.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked ahead, straining to see any signs of life ahead that she could spot, and…wait. _Wait a second_. "Is that a light?" Belle breathed. It was quite dim, but it did seem to be there, perhaps a fellow traveler camping. For a moment, she felt exhilarated. God was kind to her, for He had provided for Belle a way out of these cursed woods.

It was a light. A real, honest-to-goodness light. That was her way out, it just had to be. There could be no other explanation. Belle was not entirely sure if she had spoken out loud to herself just now or if she'd had another inner musing again, but it mattered not. She decided to follow the light and make her way towards it and see where it led.

She clung to that flicker of hope that burned bright within her chest as she inched her way towards the light carefully, trying to be mindful to not let her small satchel or her gown snag on any outstretched, groping tree limbs. Belle furrowed her brows into a frown as she continued staring at that strange light. But from which direction was it coming from? Was the thing she was so enamored with even a light guiding the way at all?

It was difficult for her to tell, but it was still there. If these woods were somehow magic and cursed, then the forest was doing an excellent job of playing tricks upon Belle's somewhat susceptible and imaginative mind. She had to know. The light grew blindingly brighter as the young woman advanced upon the light, coming to a clearing of sorts. But what in God's name was it? Moonlight? A campfire from a band of pilgrims or travelers? Fireflies?

Belle sighed, letting out a cry of frustration as she hoped it was not just her mind playing tricks on her in its emotionally compromised state. She had already given up so much this eve. Her father. Belle felt the wind tousle the skirts of her gown and tousle her wavy brown hair into buoyant curls. "H—hello?" she called out timidly, cupping her hands around her face. She still could not see the source of this mysterious light that had led her into the clearing, and was seemingly getting further away from her, no matter how many steps forward she could feel her footfalls taking her, apparently no longer taking directions from her mind and walking towards the light of their own accord. "Hello?" she shouted. There was no answer. Belle frowned, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat. "Perhaps it was the moon, then."

Belle's eyes caught the soft tumble of movement as her gaze followed a single red and brown leaf as it tumbled to the ground, drifting almost impossibly slowly from the branches just above her head that she had to duck to avoid getting hit by. Belle tiredly shook her head and blinked her eyes, trying to clear the swirling haze of black mists from her vision.

"Hello?" She tried again. "Is someone out there?" Belle called out in an uncertain voice. "Please! I—I'm lost!"

Silence. Silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness. Silence clung to Belle like a poisonous cloud that at any moment could choke the life from Belle. Silence seeped into her every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing Belle from either speech or movement.

All Belle could hear in response to her pleading calls were the sound of her own breaths, that sounded much too slow for her own comfort. Was she really breathing that slowly? She was going to most assuredly die if she kept on like this. She inhaled a sharp breath of cold fall air, attempting to force air to return to her lungs to ensure her breathing rate (and her heart rate) returned to something that resembled normalcy. She felt like she was hyperventilating right now.

The thoughts began accelerating inside Belle's head. The girl wanted them to slow so she could breathe but they won't. Her breaths come in gasps and Belle suddenly felt like she was on the verge of passing out from sheer exertion and stress. She could swear she could feel her heart hammering inside her chest like it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin. An invisible hand clamped over Belle's mouth, just as an equally ghostly surge of adrenaline pierced her heart, unloading in an instant. Belle could feel her ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate her lungs.

Gods, why couldn't she _breathe_? Was she even still alive? There was a distance in Belle's eyes as they glossed over, straining for any further signs of that mysterious light that had led her into the forest clearing, but none came to her. Her head felt like a myriad of fears rapidly spiraling out of her control, each one pushing her mind into a horrible blackness. She wanted to run. She needed to freeze. Sounds that were nearby suddenly sounded far off in the distance.

As if she were no longer in the body that currently rested against the bark of an old oak tree as she slumped to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and trying to curl into herself for warmth as much as she possibly could. Her voice came out thin and distant as she let out a low whimper.

"What…no…I—I'm lost…that's…not…right." Belle knew she was breathing all wrong, beginning to gasp like there was not enough air in these woods for her. Adrenaline flooded the young woman's system. It pumped and beat within her veins like it was trying to escape. She thought her heart would explode; her dark eyes wide with fear at the current state of her predicament. She was lost. Her body either wanted to run deeper into the heart of the woods, to try to seek shelter for the night, or back towards the way she had come and hope that she could find her way back to the pathway from there, but there was only one thing she could do. Pray that nothing found her and killed her. Especially not the wolves. She swallowed hard.

Belle could feel the adrenaline surging so fast that she almost vomited, able to taste the saliva thickening in the back of her throat and coating her tongue, beads of sweat trickling down her delicate brow. The young woman could feel the sweat drench her skin and she let out another whimper of fear, wishing with all her might that she would have stayed.

"At least I'd still be with you, Papa," she whispered, hating hearing the crack in her voice as she let herself cry.

Her fingers curled into a fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. She could not hear her rapid breathing, but she could feel the air flooding in and out of her lungs, though it felt like she was not breathing at all to her. Fear churned her stomach into intense cramps, engulfing her conscience and knocking all other thoughts aside. It overwhelmed her body, making it feel drastically exhausted, even more so than she already knew her body to be.

She was lost in the woods, with no one coming to her aid to help guide her and light the path forward.

All she was left with was this insurmountable fear, which created an uncomfortable pit deep within her stomach.

However, most of all, her fear was making her calm, and that was what scared Belle the most.


	4. In the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had to think for a long time who I wanted to find Belle in the woods. I was going to have it be Clopin, but then I thought, if he's king and has his Court of Miracles in the catacombs, he would have no reason to be traversing through the woods in the middle of the night, so then I decided it had to be Phoebus. I'll admit, when I watched the Disney movie, he wasn't my favorite at first, but he's come to grow on me, and I've kind of always treated him like a doofus in my other Notre Dame stories, so this is sort of my attempt to apologize to our Sun God. Also, he isn't married to Esmeralda in this, he's married to Fleur. I really didn't want to do the Phoebus/Esmeralda/Quasi love triangle in this story, since it's main focus is Belle/Quasi, and I didn't want to detract too much from that, so I thought the best solution to avoid that mix was to remove Esmeralda from the equation entirely. Fleur might make an appearance in a later chapter maybe, but unless she serves a plot point, I don't see the need for her. Also, Frederic is Phoebus's friend/second-in-command in the musical version of the play, so I've brought him back for round 2, he made an appearance in my other story for this fandom, Ordinary Miracles, but he was much more of a jackass, and I'm hoping to make him not so much a jerk this time around.

**Chapter Three**

Phoebus de Chateaupers let out a growl of frustration and shifted his scabbard to scratch at an itch on his thigh, thinking that these damned woods were the most annoying thing he and his small company of men had ever been forced to endure. By order of His Majesty the King, Louis the Prudent had ordered Phoebus and a small party to patrol the woods that lay at the edge of the small provincial village to ensure no wolves crossed the forest's borders and entered the town.

The blond-haired captain of the cathedral guard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger in frustration, as though he were on the verge of getting a splitting migraine. His headaches seemed to be increasing in frequency these days, thanks in no small part to Minister Claude Frollo's efforts to purge the city of Paris of the Romani people, and in by doing so, practically burning their entire great city to the ground for all of his efforts.

Phoebus groaned and trudged forward. He and his men had been out here going on at least three hours, each on the last vestiges of their patience, propelling themselves forward on perhaps only three or four hours of good, solid sleep.

Traversing these damned woods alone would have been punishment enough, but to be responsible for an entire company of men, which in actuality only totaled to about five, well, it was only natural enough that Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers as their commanding officer would see it as an obligation to keep track of each and every one of his men. Though going on what had to be the fourth hour lost in these woods, it was becoming harder and harder for the captain to account for all five in his party. His best and brightest, Lieutenant Frederic de Marten, had a horrible habit of wandering off into places where he ought not, usually in search of food, and one of their archers, Ser Aleyn, had an even worse habit of scaling the trunks of trees in able to see from a high-above vantage point. A useful skill in combat situations, but here in these woods where he was responsible for all of them, it ticked Phoebus off to no end, annoying him.

Phoebus stomped his foot in a moment of frustration and kicked aside a fallen tree branch that was in their path. The self-proclaimed Sun God of Paris glanced towards the trees' canopy as he heard the rustling of limbs above his head and he barely stifled his smile as the young archer, Aleyn, poked his head out of the wood and shot the captain a lopsided sort of smirk, albeit without ever showing his teeth. "No signs of wolves, sir."

Phoebus nodded. "I thought not. The king sends us out on these damned fool's errands nightly, risking our own lives, when we've not had a single wolf enter this village. Our Majesty keeps us away from our wives, when I could be at home in the comfort of my own bed, nice, warm, and enjoying a good f—"

"Keep your wits about you, Captain," murmured Aleyn, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks as he no doubt was having trouble ridding his mind of uncomfortable visual images of his commanding officer and his wife, Fleur.

Phoebus pursed his lips into a thin line, half tempted to remind the young archer who was barely older than the boy up in the cathedral bell towers, and hardly looked old enough to shave the two day jaw stubble that he dared to classify as the beginnings of facial hair, just who exactly was in charge here. Instead, he settled for a curt nod. "Aye," he agreed. The captain chuckled as the archer disappeared back into the tree's canopy, shaking his head in disbelief.

The boy was just like Quasi, climbing things he ought not and disappearing through his line of sight. Briefly, he wondered what the young bell ringer would think of the archer if he were to introduce the pair of them to one another, if they would get along. Phoebus frowned, craning his neck upwards towards the forest canopy, rolling his neck to crack it as he did so, scowling and furrowing his thick blond brows into a frown as he glanced about above their heads to keep track of Aleyn.

He shook his head softly to himself, wondering what exactly it could be about this damned forsaken forest that was causing himself and his men so much confusion? They prided themselves on their ability to keep a level head under stressful situations, such as combat when off fighting another of King Louis the Prudent's wars. They were soldiers. The air felt strange here. Suffocating, almost heavy, and not to mention even in the thick of autumn, hot. So bloody hot.

And the woodlands around them seemed ominously quiet. Phoebus paused, now that even the sound of his own footfalls was silent, all that could be heard was the susurration of the leaves in the gusty wind. Looking up, the Sun God was momentarily transfixed by the myriad of fluttering colors in various hues of oranges, reds, and browns, that danced in the high boughs, making a living roof above them, one that was so thick it was impossible to tell where they were here.

He felt strangely calmed, almost hypnotized in a way, he supposed, but the longer the captain stared at the falling leaves, the more they looked like eyes staring back down at Phoebus and his men, and the boughs seemed to draw closer to himself and he could feel Frederic come to stand beside his captain, and he heard his lieutenant's breath catch in his throat. The boughs felt like they were drawing closer, blocking the almost blindingly white moonlight, as if the damned leaves were forming a cage around them. "Come," growled Phoebus, grinding his teeth in anger. "The sooner we secure the perimeter, the sooner we can go home and lay with our wives. Or, _I_ will, rather. You need yourself a girl, Frederic."

His youngest and smartest lieutenant shot him a sheepish grin and mumbled some half-hearted excuse about why he had not found a woman yet worthy of his affections and love, and Phoebus rolled his eyes as he watched the younger man's face blush a light pink, though Phoebus took pity on the kid and claimed it was merely the cold fall air.

Phoebus swallowed past the lump in his throat as he stared angrily out into the swirling mist that crept its way at a petty pace, going deeper into the woods and creeping towards Captain de Chateaupers and the rest of his company.

The familiar sight of the woods Phoebus patrolled on a nightly basis was made hazy by this sudden mist, and for a moment, Captain Phoebus raised a hand to ensure he was still here. He was. This de-focused world was incredibly cold.

Billions of icy vaporized drops blew down the blond-haired man's neck and up the legs of his breeches. It did not just slowly drain his body heat; it stole it the second it made contact. It swooped in and skirted around the tree boughs. Phoebus stood in a pocket of it, but it only seemed like a pocket to the captain. He knew that he too was swallowed, eradicated by this engulfing whiteness. It hurt his eyes. It was so…white. Staring at it made Phoebus feel like he was staring at himself, staring at nothing. His mind fought hard to drum up a thousand different descriptions to plaster across it. But there was nothing that could truly describe nothing. Each thought he had seemed quite loud and exposed, just like every movement Phoebus made in the encroaching silence that wrapped like the fog around him and Frederic.

Maybe the fog was somehow in him, just as he was in it. The early evening fog loomed as far as he could see, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. The sounds of birdsong and crickets and other insects and animals in these damned woods that should have been filling the air around him all seemed to have disappeared, even his footsteps had been swallowed by the greedy beast that was this stupid fog.

Just as Phoebus was about to start throwing things in anger as he allowed his mind to wonder if he and his company would ever make it out of these damned words, a strange, muffled, faint noise rent the otherwise silent night air and caused Phoebus's ears to perk up at the strange sound. It was a small sound, coming from Phoebus's left, so faint at first, the captain of the guard wasn't even quite sure he had heard the noise to begin with. Frederic opened his mouth to speak, but at the urging of his superior, seeing Phoebus quietly raise a finger to his lips, silently communicating with his lieutenant to keep quiet, the younger, dark-haired soldier immediately clamped his mouth shut and gave a curt nod.

The captain was barely aware he was almost leaning forward in order to better hear the noise and would have stumbled on another damned tree root if Frederic had shot out an arm to catch him. "Thanks," Phoebus grumbled, and immediately fell silent again as he strained to listen. Ah, there it was again!

There was certainly some activity going on this forest, however small, but it sounded much too faint to be a wolf. A squirrel, perhaps, for he could hear the rustling of leaves. Phoebus heard it again. It sounded like a strange sort of whimpering or crying. Phoebus de Chateaupers narrowed his kind, hazel eyes and stared off into the distance, trying to see any indication that someone was nearby.

"Frederic," he whispered in as quiet a voice as he could, "stay sharp. We're not alone. Be on your guard, boy…"

His lieutenant nodded, lips parted open slightly in shock, when a muffled little squeak interrupted his thoughts.

"H—hello?" Both Phoebus and Frederic exchanged a shocked look. A woman's voice. "Please help me! I—I'm lost." Whoever the poor thing was, she sounded very faint, but audible enough for the two men to tell she was close by.

Phoebus's lips pursed into a thin line and his blond eyebrows shot so far up onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his hairline. "What's your name, darling?" he called out, hoping his voice sounded kind, for it would not do to frighten the poor thing even more than she already was. _How did she come to be in these woods by herself?_

It seemed to take several minutes for this woman in question to find her voice. "Belle," came her soft whisper, which sounded more like a gasp. She sounded breathless, like she was running out of air. Phoebus cringed visibly as he glanced around towards his left, where the sound of her voice had originally come from, hoping to spot any sign of movement.

Captain Phoebus had never heard a woman's voice sound so scared. He hoped she hadn't been attacked. "Keep talking to me, Belle. My name is Phoebus," he called out, his loud, deep voice reverberating through the forest grounds, instructing the young woman as he quickened his pace, motioning with a curt wave of his arm for Frederic to follow him. He wanted to feel relief that the sound he had heard was not, in fact, a wolf, but instead, the young girl's tiny, panicked voice only made Captain Phoebus worry even more. What if the girl was gravely injured, then what? "I've my lieutenant, Monsieur Frederic de Marten here with me. The two of us are going to find you and escort you out."

"Oh, thank the gods!" the young woman's voice wept. She sounded like she had been crying and was on the verge of perhaps a mental breakdown, which made it that much more imperative that Phoebus and Frederic reach the girl, and fast. "I—I've been lost f—for quite a while." Her teeth chattered, she sounded like she was absolutely freezing.

"I think we're getting closer," Frederic called out to the young woman who called herself Belle. "Keeping talking to us, mademoiselle, the captain and I are following the sound of your voice. Talk to us, and we _will_ find you, Belle."

The woman's voice let out a strangled attempt at speech that manifested itself into a half-choked sob. "I can't…"

"Yes, you can," Frederic reassured the voice soothingly. "Keep talking to us." He glanced towards Phoebus; whose frown only deepened the closer they got. The captain could tell the lieutenant was thinking the same thing he was.

That she had been hurt. All the men heard as a reply were soft sobs. Whatever had happened to her had not been good, for her to be traipsing about this damned forest, and without any guide or escort. No family members, even.

"Where are you…Belle?" Captain Phoebus asked gently, surprised at how fluidly the girl's name rolled off his tongue. "What do you see around you?" Whoever the girl was, the captain supposed she sounded intelligent enough, and would be able to distinguish her location from the rest of the woods, even in her panicked and distraught state of mind, but the men needed to keep the young woman speaking in order to discern her location and follow the sound of her voice.

"Trees…" the young woman wailed. Phoebus shook his head slightly, but he could tell he and Frederic were getting close, but they could still not see any sign of her. "Can you still hear me?" she asked, her voice cracking and wavering.

"Yes," Frederic answered steadily, his grip upon the hilt of his sword tightening, his fingers twitching as they neared closer towards the sound, which now included the occasional sob and sniffle, likely the girl was holding back tears.

Phoebus quickened his pace to a light jog just as soon as he could see a flash of blue and brown through the trees.

The young woman was resting against the trunk of an old oak tree, the bark of the tree likely digging into her back, quite possibly ruining her dress she wore, though the captain of the guard had a feeling she was more concerned with other matters at the moment than the well-being of her clothing. Her knees were pulled up against her chest and her delicate fingers were tightly clutching onto a small brown satchel as though her very livelihood depended on it, which for all Phoebus knew of this woman, which was only that she was lost, was admittedly very little, but he would help the girl. Before Phoebus could so much as make another move towards the shaken brunette, his lieutenant bolted forward and knelt at her side, putting a tender softly on the girl's shaking shoulder, carefully assessing her condition, not caring when the girl violently shirked back from Frederic's touch. He saw Frederic stiffen involuntarily, and Phoebus shook his head.

Frederic nodded, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he gingerly grabbed the pretty brunette by her arm and gently pulled her to her feet, helping her to stand. "Are you injured, milady?" he wondered. The lieutenant imagined the poor girl was simply scared. Neither of them knew how long she might have been wandering these damned woods on her own here.

This place had an eerie habit of turning the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours almost unnaturally fast. Something about these woods had always felt cursed to Phoebus, like the forest had been tainted with black magic.

The distraught beauty before the two men for all they knew of her could have been lost out here alone for hours, which would explain how panicked she appeared, her dark eyes darting wildly to the left and right, searching for a way out. The young woman who called herself Belle wrenched her arm out of Frederic's grip, ignoring his offended look.

Phoebus took a step or two backwards and allowed himself to get a solid, good look at the woman he and his lieutenant had just rescued. She really was quite a pretty little thing, and Belle had a kind of understated beauty, perhaps it was because she was so disarmingly unaware of her prettiness. Her pale skin was completely flawless. Phoebus could tell the girl was all about simplicity, making things easy, helping those around her to relax and be happy with what they have.

Perhaps that was why her skin glowed so, it was her inner beauty that lit her eyes and softened her features. When she smiled and laughed you couldn't help but smile along too, even if it were just on the inside. To be in her company was to feel that you too were someone, that you had been warmed in summer rays regardless of the season. Her face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving. A snowy face, very beautiful, like a snow queen's in a fairy tale. Her hands, too, were bone-white, but soft and elegant, as pale hands often are.

She looked like a porcelain doll-you worried that she'd shatter if she fell. Her hair was the brown of aged mahogany, rich and deep, yet with the subtle hues only time brings. With each stride the strands tumbled, reflecting the strengthening nightlight in waves. Her long wavy brown hair was a lovely shade of dark brown flecked with just tints here and there of a rich red, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn. How such a tint could play with the light, like peering at the sun through a jar of pine honey. Phoebus watched, startled, as the woman exploded into motion.

Suddenly, she was pacing the forest floor in a restless manner, moving like her brain was demanding the energetic expenditure of someone who was ready to break into a run, but would not tell her limbs what to do. Her dark brown eyes were wild, and when Phoebus so much as set a gentle hand upon her shoulder, she burst into speech. Talking in low murmurs to herself, painfully wringing her hands together and digging her nails into her palms and talking. Speaking to Phoebus and Frederic like she didn't have enough time to say what she needed to. Belle's words were crowded together and some missing.

Her sentences were fragmented, and her thoughts seemed to jump from one thing to another. All her fears and stress were tumbling out unchecked by her brain, as if she were in some kind of bizarre mental free-fall, unable to analyze things or assess risk. Phoebus and Frederic's soothing words were bouncing off the girl like they were hard rain, sleet. Now she was standing right in front of Frederic, her knuckles practically bone white as she attempted to steady herself and prevent herself from pitching forward, since her equilibrium was off after spending perhaps hours crouched down in a sitting position against the tree, by clutching tightly into a vice grip onto Frederic's jerkin.

"Am I…am I safe here?" The girl called Belle bit her bottom lip in a pout and glanced up at Frederic.

Frederic's bright green eyes were wide and round with shock as he glanced towards Phoebus for confirmation on what to do. Phoebus shrugged his shoulders in response. Frederic huffed in frustration and turned back towards the brunette.

"Yes. You are safe, milady. I promise that we will not hurt you, nor will we allow any harm to come to you. As soldiers of our city, we give you our word, Belle." He cringed as she shirked away, desperately wanting, no, _needing_ , the girl to calm down.

Belle breathed in and out frantically, practically clawing at Phoebus's tunic with her delicate small hands as though scared the pair of soldiers might vanish before her very eyes if the distraught young woman didn't keep a hold of him. Her fumbling fingers continued to claw frantically at Phoebus's arm, until the Sun God gripped her by her shoulders to keep the girl steady. "Th—Monsieur, please," she begged, sounding frantic. "I—I cannot breathe. Please… help me."

"Phoebus, milady, my name is Phoebus, and this man here is my lieutenant, Frederic," he interrupted immediately. Phoebus frowned and grazed his eyes over the girl's petite figure in her velvet gown. What on earth had happened here? Had she perhaps eaten a poisonous berry that was now addling and affecting her mind?

What was wrong with her?

"What happened to you, mademoiselle?" Captain Phoebus asked worriedly, having to lean down slightly to better look the girl in her eyes. Brown eyes, just like his. Her eyes were the type of brown that was like a sweet chocolate.

The chocolate that melts at the slightest bit of the heat from love, or happiness. But that chocolate can also grow hard from the cold harsh reality that is apparent in this world. Heartbreak, or the depression that she hid from all those around her so well. The girl's eyes shone like new growth on the boughs of the trees, free of moss, bright, youthful. His gaze was cool waters on flames, soft rain on petals, the sky lightening after a storm, and Phoebus found he could not pull away.

Frederic furrowed his dark brows into a frown and came to stand on the other side of the girl, so now she was effectively being flanked by the pair of soldiers. He hoped that by having both of them stand at her side, it would be enough to provide some measure of comfort and ease her mind, however small.

"Did something attack you, milady? Wolves? Did you perhaps come across anything unusual? A strange plant which may have poisoned you? A bad berry you might have eaten. What do you believe is keeping you from breathing properly?" Frederic questioned. Frederic and Phoebus were not doctors or healers or shamans, but even they knew when something was off, and something was most assuredly wrong here, if the telling signs of the woman's skittish behavior were not enough, she was having trouble breathing.

"I…no," breathed Belle, gasping for air as she heaved trying to catch her breath, one hand clutching onto the side of her ribcage as though she had been wounded, which prompted Phoebus to tilt his head and see for himself. No blood stains upon her gown, not so much as a rip or a tear. No injuries on her person that he could immediately detect. "N—no berries or poisonous plants. I—I was making my way to Paris, t—told to go through the woods, a—and I can't…"

"But you _are_ breathing, Belle," Phoebus tried to reassure the young brunette, grabbing the girl's hand in his own, and as he glanced down, he could not help but to notice just how fragile and delicate her wrists were. Tiny, and easily breakable. He wordlessly pressed it against her chest and held it firmly there so that she could feel it for herself. "See?"

Captain Phoebus kept his hand firmly planted against Belle's chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breast, and the soldier could feel the girl breathing, though her breaths came to her in short, gasping spurts, and they probably were not completely filling her little lungs as much as a good inhale of cold fall air ought to, but she was still very much alive.

"No," Belle sobbed, attempting to wrench her hand out of Phoebus's grasp. "I—I thought that I was breathing, b—but this place it's…it feels as though I'm not breathing, monsieur. I—I can hear myself exhale, but no air is coming to me." She bit her bottom lip and stuck it out in a slight pout, lifting her chin to gaze blearily up at Phoebus, waiting. He could tell it by the girl's eyes that she thought that he and Frederic both believed her to be certifiably insane.

It was Frederic who broke the awkward silence between the trio. "You are merely skittish and having a panic attack, milady. It is nothing to be ashamed of and only natural after what a beautiful young woman like you has been through."

Phoebus repressed the urge to roll his eyes at his lieutenant's poor attempt at flirting, although he could not help but to notice how the young woman blushed a light pink, her cheeks flushing high with color, at the soldier's compliment. The captain smirked and shot the lieutenant a coy little suggestive wink as Frederic de Marten offered the young brunette beauty his arm, and she practically clung to the startled but pleased lieutenant as though her life depended on him. Phoebus cast a curious glance out of his peripherals at the girl as she looked around the woods in awe and wonder.

He watched as Belle knelt on the ground after a moment to pick up an acorn that lay cold on the soil, bright against the dark, rain-soaked ground. Its shell glistened with drops poised to run home to earth, sitting proud on the impervious shell. Captain Phoebus allowed a soft ghost of a smile to creep onto his face as Belle lovingly fingered the perfect little specimen of acorn that she had found, before carefully slipping it into her handkerchief and placing it inside her satchel.

"You will carry it all the way?" Phoebus asked, in an effort to make conversation after a few minutes in silence.

Belle blinked and looked up, startled. "I—what? Oh. Th—the acorn. Yes. I—I will, monsieur. I will bring it with me, and someday…if I am able to return home. I will plant it and watch it grow. It shall be the best traveled nut in all of Paris," she joked weakly, offering the Sun God a smile, though it did not reach her eyes. "Thank you, Captain Phoebus, and Lieutenant de Marten for saving my life. If you had not found me when you had, I cringe to think what might have become of me…" Her voice cracked and trailed off as she glanced away, turning her head away sharply.

Phoebus gave a curt little nod, though he knew the girl could not see the gesture in this moment. "Have you any family in Paris who are waiting for you, milady? Have you a home that I could escort you to, ensure you arrive safe?"

It seemed a moment before Belle spoke again. "N—no." Her voice was barely above a whisper, almost lost over the gusts of cold autumnal air. "I—I had a home once, but…no longer." She bit her bottom lip and said nothing further.

Phoebus furrowed his blond brows into a frown as he assessed her figure and the condition of her velvet gown, how almost not a strand of her hair was out of place, and aside from a minor scratch from a nasty-looking tree limb above her left brow bone, and a suspicious looking marking around her neck, the girl was relatively unharmed. It was obvious to Phoebus that either she was born into money, or judging by the wedding ring around her finger, she'd married into it.

Much like he had done when he had married Fleur. It did not take the trained soldier long to assess what had happened. Either the girl's husband had been lost to a war or perhaps brigands, and she was now a widow, or… _She ran away_ , his conscience offered, and at that thought, he frowned. He did not like to think of any man so horribly mistreating his wife that she would willingly flee from him, but he suspected that the young woman in front of him and Frederic had good reason to.

The captain could tell the young woman was intelligent, though to survive in the sometimes harsh world of Paris, especially with no family or home to turn to, would require a different kind of intelligence and tact, one he was not all together certain that Belle possessed, but… he hated to see a maiden in distress.

Phoebus watched as Belle's brown eyes shifted to the side yet again and become glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As she blinked, they dripped down from her eyelids and slid down her pale cheeks in gentle tracts. The girl bit her lip tightly in an attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from her mouth, and Phoebus could feel his heart sink to his stomach. Her lower lip quivered as words slowly made their way out of her mouth.

"I'm…" she began, but yet what followed was engulfed in tremors and a half-choked sob.

Phoebus knew then that they had to help this woman, no matter the cost. "Fear not, milady, for we know a place."

He exchanged a quick glance with Frederic and gave a curt nod, relieved to see that the lieutenant had been thinking the same thought. "It is a sanctuary for those who have no home or family to return to. Whatever ails you, whatever you might be on the run from, it is not my place to pry into your life's personal affairs, but as long as you claim sanctuary within the walls of where Frederic and I are taking you, you will be safe. No one will touch you there, Belle. I swear it."

The captain could tell Belle practically felt the weight lift from her shoulders at his words, and she walked a little taller. Her stride became lighter, and she turned to the captain and lieutenant with a hopeful look sparkling in her brown eyes.

"Where is that you are taking me?" Belle asked softly, her eyes fixated on Phoebus and Frederic as she bit her lip.

Frederic exchanged a quick glance with Phoebus, who nodded. He turned back towards Belle and fixed the young woman with a soft smile.

"Notre Dame, milady. We're taking you to Notre Dame."


	5. Nightmares and New Arrivals

**Chapter Four**

The streets of Paris that thronged with life during the daytime stood desolate and empty during the night. The food vendors were gone, the women in their brightly colored shawls and cloaks selling hand made goods from carts and baskets packed up their wares. Gone were the children playing in the crowd. Now, at night, all one could see if you were at a high enough vantage point would be the slightly dusty cobblestone streets with only the bitter Paris breeze for company. Occasionally, there was the harried person, usually a man, moving quickly with tense purpose, for it was unsafe for women to be out after curfew.

Only unsavory types lingered in the streets at nightfall, and Parisian women knew better. The stock of the trees that lined the edge of the village swayed slightly in the wind, seeped with sap like the beads of sweat that the moon saw fit to suck from underneath the only figure who was currently looking out at the City of Lovers with a content look on his face. _His_ city— _his_ Paris—looked to be on fire. The smoke filled air gave the place a blood red look, even in the dead of night. The reviled bell ringer of Notre Dame watched from above, trying his hardest not to glance around at the bodies that littered the streets, most of them dead, the ones who were severely wounded would soon enough be dead, the earthly tethers that bound them to the coil of life would be severed as they bled.

_All a part of Master Frollo's efforts to rid the world of the Romani people_ , the young boy thought, turning away, unable to look at it any longer than necessary. The poor boy at age twenty-one was cursed with some misshapen features, the most prominent of which was a back slightly hunched, though that did not impede the cathedral's bell ringer from standing up straight at his full height of around 6'1 or walking. He walked with an odd gait, wonky at times and a bit lumbering, and at times he had to be careful, for his left eye suffered from an unfortunate swollen contusion above his left brow bone that gave the rest of his features a slightly lopsided look, as well as impeded his vision, which, although not dire and did not cause a loss of vision in that eye, sometimes caused him to be quite clumsy and awkward in his movements.

The bell ringer was, however, quite strong after over twenty years of ringing the proud, massive iron and brass bells, his beauties, of Notre Dame, and chosen to downplay his strength and slightly chiseled build by hiding underneath thick long sleeved linen shirts and overtop that, a green or brown tunic, worn and tattered that came with much usage but still bore signs of being well cared for these days.

On his strong hands, he wore thick brown leather gloves with the fingers cut off, brown hose, and brown boots with several dozen scuff markings, though if he were feeling particularly in a good mood, sometimes he polished them. The boy, no older than twenty-one, whose master, Minister and Judge Claude Frollo, had bestowed upon him the cruel name of Quasimodo, a name which meant 'half formed,' or 'almost made,' turned away, clenching his jaw shut as he glanced downward, surprised to see his reflection staring back at him from the edge of his brown leather boot, where he had almost stepped on a broken shard of glass.

He cringed as he knelt to pick up the small shard, scowling at the shadow of would have been quite a handsome face, were it not for the contusion above his left brow bone, stared back at him. The wind ruffled his wavy ginger hair gently, though one stubborn coarse lock of fiery red hair often hung lank and limp in his one good eye that still possessed the gift of good sight. "Another day has come and gone, with naught to show for it," Quasi growled darkly, resting his hands on the balcony's railing as he gave a tap with his gloved knuckles upon the tallest of three stone statues perched atop the rail.

Victor, Hugo, and Laverne were not yet awake, and a part of Notre Dame's bell ringer felt guilty for disturbing the three, though as of lately, he was beginning to enjoy their company less and less, which he felt bad about it, but… Quasi had awoken from yet another nightmare, these too were growing in frequency and plaguing what little sleep he did receive. On a good night, he was lucky to awaken to ring for Lauds with a solid four to five hours of sleep.

He had watched, horrified, as he had stood in front of the mangled, broken body of his father, his maître, Judge Frollo. His fractured mind during his dream had wanted nothing more than to scream at him that Claude was dead. Dead was permanent. Dead was forever. Dead was when the spark in the eyes was extinguished, yet unlike fire, was without smoke. Quasimodo dreamed that he had killed his father for murdering the Romani dancer that had plagued his mind.

Notre Dame's bell ringer and the entire town square had been forced to watch the pyre burning in the courtyard. He had failed to save the one woman's life who had dared to show him an ounce of kindness when she had offered him that single drink of water up on the pillory. The girl, La Esmeralda, had forgotten about that poor devil. But he had not.

In his dream, it was not enough for the tormented man, to know that the man who had so cruelly cut away the young Romani woman's life was dead. Quasi watched, horrified, as Judge Frollo's corpse was almost devoid of skin, only recognizable by the black tattered robes his father was still dressed in, or rather, was left of them that hadn't been singed. In his nightmares, it was always the same. Quasi watched Esmeralda burn, except this time…he did something about it.

With an agonized roar that escaped the back of his throat, and this part was always the same, he picked up the distinguished judge and minister and threw his master over the edge of the Rose Window balcony and to the stones below. The young twenty-one year old turned away as his stomach gave a painful lurch.

Without eyelids, the gray eyes of his father stared into the frozen sky, while his mouth hung open, eternally frozen in a silent scream. "I am…sorry, Master." Quasi turned away as snow began to fall on the front steps of Notre Dame.

The blizzard in the dead of winter was more snowflakes than it would ever make sense for the young man to count; yet each makes its own daring path to the white dunes they build taller. One flake in the sky would be madness, yet this horizon filled with them is the greatest of sanity to come.

As Quasi closed his eyes and tried to forget the corpse of his dead father laying sprawled on the steps of Notre Dame in front of him, all the light faded away and smudged into darkness until all there was left in his vision was black. There was an uncanny peace in this darkness, and he liked it. It felt like the one time of day, or night, rather, when he was not judged and scorned. At least until the air around him began to get thinner until it became almost impossible for the bell ringer to breathe. Quasi let out a startled shout as his father's corpse bolted up right and opened its eyes—what was left of them—and began to speak to him.

"Your mother was _foolish_ to try to save someone as deformed and monstrous as you," Frollo's corpse growled, his voice low and baritone, menacing. "You should have been _killed_ at birth! I wanted nothing more than to take you into the sea and _drown_ you when I found you, let the waves carry you away and rid me of your burden, but out of the goodness of my heart, I take you in and I raise a monster such as you, and this— _this_ is how you repay my kindness?"

Quasi wrenched away from the corpse's touch in disgust, scrambling backwards on the steps, a terrified look on his face. "Get away from me!' he bellowed furiously. "You're not real!"

The judge's corpse laughed as it continued its petty crawl towards his terrified son. "I might not be real to you now, son," it hissed, "but soon you'll realize I'll never truly die. No matter how many times you murder me in your dreams, embracing that darkness that I always knew lurked deep within your heart, I'm a part of you."

At these words, the great cathedral began to burn and go up in flames, the heat warping the building and destroying it within a matter of mere seconds. A chunk of the building collapsed and hurdled towards the distraught bell ringer. Just as the stone made impact, his world went black…

An ominous clap of thunder startled the bell ringer out of his abysmal nightmare. His cheeks were wet, and his body bathed in a cold sweat, his brow furrowed.

The blankets of his makeshift bed in his sleeping nook were twisted around his limbs, probably because he'd been thrashing in his sleep. His heart pounded in its cage against his chest. He trembled, glancing about the tower loft. Nothing but darkness. No light anywhere. The remnants of his nightmare still clung to his mind, haunting him. Quasi had no trouble imagining assassins lurking in the murky darkness of his tower. The people of Paris wanted him dead, after all. As soon as the people had heard the poor bell ringer call out to the judge for help at the Festival of Fools, the secret was out, and he was even more reviled and hated for it.

He raked his fingers through his red hair, wondering if his nightmares of him murdering his master, his father, a man who was still very much alive, were trying to tell him something. If it was his conscience warning him of his own dark urges, how things had been quite strained with his master ever since the death of the Romani woman months ago. Quasi took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. After a few minutes of this, he reluctantly got up, quickly dressed, and padded noiselessly up the tower's ladders to the countless bells towering above to ring for the morning lauds.

He stifled a groan when he finished, noticing his three guardians waiting for him, looking cross. The eldest and wisest of the three, Laverne, approached their son without fear or hesitation, a concerned look on her ancient face, her yellow eyes the color of topaz apprehensive as she assessed the bell ringer's condition. The stone gargoyle was magnificent in her old age.

She was small. In her aged face was the sign of proud regality, with a glorious wingspan and her yellow eyes that had seen much in her years as protector of the great cathedral. When Laverne came to life, her frame was elegant, her muscles lean. Her tail was a sharp whip, slashing the air with each swipe as she restlessly paced the bell tower's balcony floor, her claws pointed and vicious, leaving telltale claw marks in her wake.

Her teeth were sharp canines that glinted in the light, and whenever Laverne spoke to him, despite her intimidating appearance, her voice was quiet and kind, her words wise. She had always been a godsend to him, and his favorite amongst the three guardians, although he'd never admit it. In the rising sunlight of the day ahead, his guardians clung to the shadows where they could. In the semi-shadow of the evening after the sun fell, the gargoyles took on a menacing look. Whereas in the daytime, they were merely sculptures of stone, cold and lifeless, in the encroaching darkness, they took on their demonic stares and waited.

Quasi eyed the gargoyles, just for a moment, feeling envious of the three of them, wishing that he too, could have a heart of stone, so that it would take away his painful twinges every time he dared to think of Esmeralda, and how he had failed to save the girl's life from such a horrible fate. _What a mercy it must be for you. To be frozen in stone, to have your rage and hatred wiped clean, made still for all time, at least until you choose to come to life when you three are alone up here, content to hide in the shadows with me_. Theirs were faces that had never known love and feared it. They struggled against the light of day and fled to darkness. _But you know full well what it is to be a demon_ , his mind offered, taking the bell ringer once again to his dark place. _To extinguish such a thing is cruel_ , his mind offered. _Isn't it?_

When his three guardians were still, they were as cold as the demon's hearts they were meant to represent. But alive, they were warm and caring. Monsters, though they appeared to be, they were not. Little did the people know that the monsters protected him, just as they protected Notre Dame. In the cold air, the bell ringer pondered if that were why they were cast onto the church, to show that extinguishing cruelty was a positive thing, that there could be no guilt in killing the monsters of nightmares. The other two, Victor and Hugo, were not so pleasant to look upon. Eyes bulged, over-sized ears that were unnaturally pointed and the grins evoked notions of sadistic pleasure. Hunched, disfigured, and leering downward towards the parishioners, Victor and Hugo were as cold as they looked on the outside. But when Quasi looked up in the half-light of the rising sun of the cold spring morning, those two simply reminded him to guard against the blacker parts of his nature, that all of humanity has a little demon inside their hearts, and it was up to him to keep his demon in his heart as impudent as his stone gargoyle companions of his tower.

"What?" he snapped, not in the mood to talk, fully aware the three of them saw the deep purple bags underneath his eyes. He'd not gotten a full night's rest in perhaps months. He absentmindedly picked at a loose thread on one of the fingers of his brown fingerless gloves he wore on his hands to protect them from the bells' harsh ropes and the cold winters.

"You're not sleeping again, aren't you?" questioned Victor, the stoic of the three, a stern look on his misshapen face.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Quasi retorted hotly, feeling his temper emerge as he swallowed hard, though he recognized his outburst as symptoms of not getting enough sleep over the last few weeks, and as a result, he did not want to look his guardians in the eyes, instead, choosing to focus his gaze outward into the streets of Paris.

"It is when you make it our business, Quasimodo. You have shunned us over the last few days. Don't," said Laverne kindly, careful to mind her choice of words around their ward. He was prone to an outburst or two when his emotions got to be too much for him to handle, and the last thing they needed was another outburst that they all suffered.

Hugo tried a kinder approach. "You've been…distant lately, Quasi. Is everything okay? What's going on, kid?"

Victor spoke up, adding in his opinion. "If something is troubling you, it's okay to talk to us. That's what we're here for; we're your guardians. Let us help you, Quasimodo."

Quasi sighed, running a hand through his tuft of red hair.

"It's…Frollo," he confessed, his voice pained. He turned away sharply, a muscle in his jaw twitching involuntarily.

"What about him?" asked Laverne softly.

When he found his voice again, it was hoarse and weak. "Nightmares," was all he could croak out. He looked down at his hand and absentmindedly traced his palm, where Esmeralda had once read his palm, telling him she saw no monster lines and that he would have a long lifeline ahead. It was a moment before he spoke again. "Did I…did I do the right thing?" he asked at last, his voice sounding strained.

"What do you mean, kid?" Hugo asked, clearly confused.

"When I…when I obeyed Master's orders! He—I let him…kill her, a—and…it haunts me. I tried to stop him, but…you three saw it, I didn't get there in time. I—I tried… Did I do the right thing, Hugo? Laverne? Victor? What should I have done?" Quasi snapped, irate and not in the mood to delve into the details again, lest his memories start resurfacing again, but it was already too late. He angrily brushed away Frollo's voice still raging in his eardrums. "I don't…I don't know what to do about them."

"Your dreams, you mean?" Victor asked for clarification.

Quasi nodded, unable to say anything else. He couldn't. His conscience cried out to him again, begging for attention. _If in life, we are defined by the choices we make, then I am a monster. Frollo is right. I'll never be anything but. That's just how life is, and it's time I accepted that. I'll never be anything but a monster. I'm not destined to have a great life, a normal life, as much as I might want one for myself one day. I'll never have a wife or kids to share in the simplicity of life's ordinary miracles, the daily beauty of our world_ , he thought bitterly, averting Laverne's piercing gaze as she watched her son with a careful eye, gauging his reactions.

"Perhaps Alice downstairs can get you something to help you sleep," Laverne offered at last, hoping he would take her suggestion and leave the tower, go for a walk within the cathedral's walls, and get out. He nodded, and he frowned as a flash of yellow and blue caught his eye below, and he craned below, leaning forward against the railing to see better.

"What…?" He frowned as he furrowed his brows into a frown. "It's Phoebus, and… he has a girl with him." Quasi frowned as he crept forward for a closer look, suddenly intrigued by the new arrival's presence. Why on earth Phoebus and one of his lieutenants would be escorting a young woman to the cathedral at this late hour of the night when all others were safe asleep in their homes was beyond him, unless…unless…

"Unless she's in danger," he breathed, wide-eyed. Quasi's frown deepened and before he could even fathom what was happening, his curiosity was overtaking his body completely, no longer taking directions from his mind as he could feel himself beginning to scale the cathedral walls. _Could she be another claiming sanctuary? Has she come to the cathedral to stay? What is her business here?_ His mind offered helpfully, and he inexplicably felt a swell of hope begin deep within the pits of his stomach as he landed behind a stone pillar towards the front entrance of the cathedral, ducking into the shadows under the cover of nightfall to avoid being seen. Ah, but gods, how he had longed for another companion to talk to ever since…since Esmeralda.

Quasi shook his head vehemently to rid his mind of such unhelpful thoughts. Such a dream was impossible for him. Doubt suddenly shot through him like a piercing arrow destroying resistance. Doubt at his very existence. Doubt at his life's purpose and journey if it was all worth it. Worry grew within his heart like a corrupted, malicious, and twisted tree. Its branches warped and tangled. But seeds of hope managed to worm their way into the ground and no matter how large and terrifying Quasi's darkness was, the small seeds of hope endured like a small pebble to last indefinitely and yet grow, alluring him to get up each morning and hope the new day would be better than the last, to make something of his life, for hope is what got the bell ringer out of the bad. Yet, another voice deep within him speaks.

Hope, Notre Dame's bell ringer knew, was nothing more than just an illusion, which he had accomplished, yet was unreachable and impossible bringing a dark ending? Is it to fool the mind and defy logic, which will come at a dark penance? Such was doubt. _What is hope, then?_ His mind challenged.

His mind was jolted out of its musings as the girl whispered something in low tones towards the blond-haired captain of the guard, who threw back his head and laughed, and for just a fraction of a second, the bell ringer felt the hot fire seed of jealousy well deep within the pit of his stomach, though it troubled him that he could not get a better look at the girl's features from this distance. Not without stepping from his place in the shadows and revealing himself to her, which was something he could not—would not—do. To do such a thing would inflict upon her nightmares, this the bell ringer knew.

No. He couldn't. Best if he stayed put. Still, he did not know why it bothered him so to see the girl in the company of their gilded soldier, Phoebus de Chateaupers himself. He ground his teeth in anticipation and pressed his back against the wall as he watched Phoebus and the other soldier quietly escort the girl inside and follow her, though the men did not bother to close the door behind them, which left him wondering…could he follow them?

Quasi strained to listen from his spot behind the massive stone pillar, hidden in the shadows, as the sound of the mysterious young woman's delightful laughter reached his ears as she allowed Phoebus and his lieutenant to escort her within the wide oak double doors that led into the main sanctuary of the cathedral, no doubt in search of the Archdeacon. Before he could stop himself, a small smile crept and tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The girl's laughter, whoever she was, her laughter was kind, soft, and seemed to flow through the air like a breeze. It was as song to a bird and came in happy moments. It was the sound of her soul, something that comes when the smile of her eyes overflowed into the air. So, as he listened to the woman's delightful laughter, like the sound of a million pealing bells, his heart warmed, and her soft expression of joy was as much a gift to him as to the rest of the world…

Quasi flinched as he felt himself step from the shadows and made to follow the captain and the girl, his feet moving of his own accord, though his mind was screaming at him to bolt for the stairwell that would take him back to the towers. While a part of him longed for another human connection, he knew that it was not wise, for look what had become of poor Esmeralda. How he had ached whenever he saw her smile at Phoebus. The bell ringer had wanted it to be directed towards him. For him. Because of him. He wanted to be the one to bring the Romani girl joy. Be the source of her lit green eyes and dimpled cheeks. He had watched Esmeralda bring so much happiness to those around her and had felt and basked in the warmth she had given him, simply by virtue of allowing the misshapen bell ringer to befriend her.

Esmeralda had taught Quasi how to find beauty in an otherwise dark and cruel world, that the world was not as cruel as Master Frollo would continue to have him believe. Esmeralda, when she had still been alive, tried so hard to do so well. The girl had worked hard. Fought for every step; even if it wasn't always in the right direction.

With Phoebus, she had wanted to fly and now she was gone. Extinguished from the world. Quasi's heart still ached, even almost a full six months after her passing, with the knowledge that he had not been able to save her life. Sometimes the bell ringer was left wondering if it would have been better if the two of them had never met. Maybe it would be better if Quasi had let Esmeralda fade from his life, back out of it like she was never there.

"But I can't let go." The words had escaped him as he lingered in the shadows, content to watch the mysterious girl from the shadows, lingering by one of the empty pews left out from evening Mass, shrouded in the darkness. His breath hitched as the girl looked towards his general direction, though she and Captain Phoebus were still too far away for the boy to get a good look at her features from this distance. Still, guilt pricked as his heart as he observed the two.

He could not help but to wonder…what Esmeralda would think of this. To develop an unattainable desire wasn't wise. He knew it when he started. But he kept moving. Has it been six months already? And yet…the ache won't fade. With this final thought in his heart, Quasimodo watched, feeling uncertain and swells of fiery dislike for the blond-haired captain course through his veins as he offered the girl his arm and escorted her away from the pew, no doubt about to give her the grand tour of the cathedral. The redheaded bell ringer sneered and turned away, disappearing back towards the stairwell that would lead him back up to the sanctuary of his north bell tower.

For he knew that a monster like him belonged there. To follow the captain and this girl down here had been foolish. Frollo had been right. Was right. He was nothing but a monster, so why should he try to pretend otherwise? Quasi turned on the heel of his brown leather boot and fled up the stairwell, without so much as a glance behind.

But if he would have looked back, even just the once, over his shoulder, he would have noticed the fair-skinned brunette beauty staring after him…


	6. Unexpected Encounters

**Chapter Five**

“Wow.” It felt like Belle’s brain had gone on pause while the rest of her thoughts struggled to catch up. “I—it’s beautiful.” It was the only word Belle could manage to describe the wondrous awe and beauty of the illustrious Gothic infrastructure of the powerful cathedral the kind captain of the guard and his awkward but still nice enough lieutenant had managed to guide her to. She had clung to the dark-haired lieutenant’s arm the whole trek out of the woods, afraid the three of them would get separated again. The whole walk out of the words, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers hadn’t really _seemed_ like he’d known where he was going and as a result, Belle had been able to see right through the captain’s false facade of bravado, but in the interim, they had found the path that led back towards the Parisian marketplace.

If she was being completely honest with herself, she would not have minded the captain had come outright and admitted they were lost, just the simple fact that these men had found her alone in the woods and had so kindly offered to escort her towards a place where she might be safe, out of the goodness of their hearts, was more than enough for Belle. For now, she was just relieved to have been reunited with civilization once more, and that she might be safe here.

She paused in her footfalls to take in the beauty of the cathedral’s nave a minute longer, though she could not help but feel as though she wished she could pull her book out from her satchel and hide behind it, for Lieutenant Frederic de Marten seemed to have quite forgotten what he could see in his peripheral vision and she could feel the man’s eyes walking from her dark hair to the hem of her dark blue velvet gown and back up again to rest upon her eyes.

In short, Frederic de Marten was enamored and staring at Belle, and there seemed to be no end to his fascination with the inventor’s daughter. The only time his gaze broke away was when Belle turned her head sharply to the left to identify one of the statues, and he pretended to feign an interest in them as well, even going as far as to point out a few others.

Belle had to crane her neck this way and that, struggling to take in the vast amounts of space within the main sanctuary, her dark eyes wide in wonder as she glanced at several dozen statues of various angels and saints in the Catholic faith, of which she was proud to be a part of, though admittedly, she and her father did not attend regular Mass perhaps as often as they would have liked in times past, for the simple-minded people of their little provincial village did not take kindly at all to Maurice’s inventions, or Belle’s idealistic ways and free-spirited thinking, not to mention, her love of books. But the people simply did not understand. Belle bit the inside of her cheek as she felt her hand not currently clutched onto Lieutenant Frederic de Marten’s arm as the two men gave her a tour of the inside of the cathedral.

Reading for the young woman was like an escape from reality for her. Whenever she picked up a new book and started reading, Belle would become so engrossed in the rich vastness of the fictional world and its characters, that she would quite forget any of her surroundings. Her imagination was free to take over and she was free to fantasize about whatever she wanted without worrying that the people of her village (well, now former village, she supposed) would judge her for it. It was as if she could create an entire world simply within the confines of her own mind and imagine what the characters of the story would look like, how they would act, the things they would say to one another.

She thought it rather remarkable how much something as casual as reading to her could leave such an impact.

Belle inhaled a breath of cool air as the three of them paused in the cathedral’s nave. Phoebus gestured for Belle to sit in an empty pew that had not been put away from the evening’s Mass appointment. She accepted the man’s offer, her legs aching and screaming in protest as she took a seat, and, much to the amusement of her new companions, lifted the skirts of her dark blue gown and sat cross-legged on top of the wooden pew, noticing with no small measure of entertainment in her dark eyes how the captain and his lieutenant promptly looked away out of respect for her privacy until she settled the skirts of her dress back over her leg, clutching tightly onto her meager little brown leather satchel in her life as she swung the strap of the bag off her shoulder, reaching up her other hand to gingerly rub her shoulder, that muscle giving a painful twang as she had been carrying it on her person for what felt like the last several hours to her.

It had been completely dark when the three of them finally arrived at the cathedral, the gnarled trees hung low over the edges of the cathedral’s town square, of which the magnificent church itself was at the heart of. The heavy oak doors broke open as Phoebus, with some small amount of effort, pulled open the doors and winced as it echoed around the empty church. On the outside of the cathedral, above were the gargoyles, embodiments of evil. On their lofty perches these stone caricatures were exposed to the worst of the Parisian weather and elements as the years passed and showed signs of the relentless seasonal freeze-thaw. It was hard for Belle now not to find them amusing. Oh, she supposed any other young woman her age would have pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at them, coming from a place of fear.

But when Belle had looked up at them as the captain had helped her ascend the stone steps of Notre Dame’s entrance, they simply reminded the inventor’s daughter to guard against the blacker, darker parts of her nature, that even she was not immune to that demonic voice that whispered thoughts of malice and wickedness to her whenever she thought of Gaston. At the thought of her husband, Belle crinkled her nose in disgust and turned her head away sharply, as thoughts and visions of Gaston Dupont danced in the front of her mind, and she sincerely hoped that her Papa would be all right.

Captain Phoebus noticed the slight movement from the young woman and furrowed his blond brows into a frown.

“It is not my place to speak out against….what I believe might have happened to you, mademoiselle, that caused you to flee your situation and find yourself lost in the woods,” he began hesitantly, his hazel eyes drifting downward as he noticed the brunette seated between himself and Frederic in the otherwise empty pew in the nave had begun fidgeting with her gold wedding ring, “But…you will be safe here. It should be enough for you to make a fresh start of life. Start over. I am afraid that my lieutenant and I cannot stay long, darling, we must get back and finish securing the perimeter.”

Belle gave a curt nod, though at the same time as she felt her stomach churn and her heart give a painful lurch within the confines of her chest, and her throat went dry at the thought of once more being left alone in an unfamiliar place.

“Life has killed my dreams. I had a dream once that things might be different for my father and I, but…is this… _home_?” she whispered, not even realizing that she had spoken it out loud until she noticed both men’s heads swivel from their spots in the pew and regard the young woman with no small amount of curiosity in their eyes. “I had one once. My…my father, he will be worried of me, but it is not safe for me to return home. Not yet,” she confessed.

Frederic shrugged his shoulders and offered Belle a kind smile that she returned, though admittedly, something about the man’s gesture felt a little bit off. Belle blinked and shook her head to clear her mind of such inappropriate thoughts.

 _Not all men are pigs like Gaston. This one did help to save your life, after all. Be kinder to him_ , her conscience scolded her, and immediately she felt guilty for allowing her mind to even think such thoughts of the captain of the guard’s lieutenant, who did not appear to be much older than Belle herself. Early twenties, perhaps. Mid to late twenties, at best. Handsome enough, she supposed, though Belle pursed her lips into a thin rigid line as she realized, over the last few months of her marriage to Gaston Dupont, she’d had quite enough of handsome men. The vanity and arrogant egotistical behaviors that more often than naught accompanied the men’s good looks was entirely too much for the painter and inventor’s daughter to tolerate for extended periods of time.

 _These men helped lead you from the heart of the woods and guided you to safety. I cannot believe they would intend to do me any harm. If they meant me harm, they would have done it back in the forest_ , Belle thought, and her head perked up as she could not help but to overhear a conversation between a farmer and a miller, parishioners who had apparently come to the cathedral at this late hour of the night to pray. “Mark my words, Laurent, that monstrous boy upstairs is naught but a devil. How the cathedral allows that bell ringer to still live is beyond my ability to comprehend it. You were lucky the monster did not snap your neck for looking at him the way you did the other day, my old friend.”

The man who was being challenged scoffed and rolled his eyes, folding his thick arms across his chest. “The demon might lurk upstairs within these walls, but you cannot deny that even _you_ were curious, Henri. How could the Archdeacon and the Judge keep this hidden from us? Notre Dame hiding a demon right under our midst for over the last twenty years in secret, it’s a scandal. I was well within my rights to venture up to the monster’s tower and provoke it.”

Belle gaped, her lips parted open in shock as the man speaking whose name Belle now knew to be Laurent turned and blanched upon seeing the captain, the lieutenant, and the inventor’s daughter seated in the pew, each regarding the new arrivals with a level of scorn and distaste that was unmatched. Belle glanced to the right and noticed Phoebus de Chateauper’s hand had curled tightly into a fist, his nails digging into the skin of his palm hard enough to pierce it and bleed. She was not at all surprised when the captain slowly rose from his spot on the pew, standing up straight to his full height of around 6’3, and let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat that immediately made the two parishioners take a few fumbling steps backwards and glance at the other in shock, realizing only too late that perhaps they had made a mistake. “Monsieur Laurent, Henri,” Phoebus began, careful, Belle noticed, to keep his tone courteous as best he could, though she had come to recognized the hardened edges of a man’s voice, clipped and taut, whenever a man was angered, having seen it several times for herself whenever she was around Gaston, and to a lesser extent, LeFou.

“We know you,” breathed the shorter one called Henri, his green eyes wide and terrified as he lifted a slightly shaking finger to point it into the captain’s chest. “Captain de Chateaupers, you stand here in this holy place and dare to tell us to our faces that you would befriend a monstrous creature such as _that_? It is a crime against your own great city, your country, to associate with the likes of that…that _thing_. It’s treasonous,” he growled, jerking his head towards a stairwell.

Curious, Belle shifted slightly in her seat, rising from the pew, and taking a few cautious steps forward to get a better look. She could have sworn that she had spotted the briefest flashes of red and green dart from behind a pillar earlier.

 _Could this be the one they’re referring to? Why? It isn’t right to call someone such horrible names, no matter what they may or may not have done. These men are in the wrong, I know that much. Maybe…he just needs a friend. Perhaps he is alone in this world just as much as I am now. If I am to stay here indefinitely, I might as well get to know the inhabitants and caretakers of the cathedral. It is, after all, the only right thing to do. Go and talk to the man_. She bit her bottom lip, a hand outstretched as if she wanted to call out to the strange figure lurking in the shadows, but a strong hand on her shoulder prevented her from doing so and startled the inventor’s daughter out of her moment of hypnosis.

She watched, her face crestfallen, as the figure darted from behind the sanctuary of his newfound hiding spot and bolted up one of the stairwells that appeared to lead to the uppermost level of the magnificent cathedral. She frowned.

Something deep within the recesses of her heart did not feel right conversing about a man of whom she knew nothing, and regardless of what the poor man may or may not have done, Belle did not believe the man in question deserved the ridicule and slander the miller and the farmer had engaged in a mindless conversation with. She quirked a brow at the now empty stairwell and bit the inside of her cheek as she turned back towards Captain Phoebus and Lieutenant Frederic, and she was not at all surprised to find that their expressions on their face mirrored hers. Ones of absolute disgust and rage. “You must take better care of what you say, especially within these walls, Monsieur Laurent, and you too, Henri, for Notre Dame has eyes and ears. Do not think she is not listening. That boy has maintained his residency within these walls longer than you have lived in Paris, either one of you. He has every right to life, and to suggest that you think he does not is despicable,” snarled Lieutenant Frederic through clenched teeth and a jaw rooted shut. His fingers had curled into fist and he shoved them behind his back, no doubt in the effort to restrain himself from lashing out at something in anger. “If you are smart, and I know you to be, you will vacate the premises immediately, or I should cut out your tongues for speaking such _lies_ ,” he whisper hissed, careful to keep his voice low and ignoring the dark look his commanding officer shot him. _Clearly, Captain Phoebus does not like his men to resort to violence unless it’s absolutely necessary_ , Belle thought, painfully wringing her hands together, though her admiration and respect for the blond-haired captain of the guard who had saved her life in the words soared to new levels, and she considered the man a new friend.

Captain Phoebus, sensing danger, took two steps forward and placed himself between Monsieur Laurent and his lieutenant, gently prying Frederic’s hands off the collar of the man’s tunic, of which Frederic had seized fistfuls.

“That shall not be necessary, Lieutenant,” Phoebus announced coldly, raising his voice though he did not avert his gaze from Laurent or his friend, Henri, though Belle could have sworn she saw the Sun God turn his head to the side and shot her a brief, furtive little wink. “Henri and Laurent were just leaving. _Weren’t_ you?” he added darkly for emphasis.

Belle watched, mesmerized and the other part of her feeling slightly uneasy, as the captain and the farmer’s eyes locked, the soft expressions of both men but a few seconds ago having evaporated. The farmer held Captain de Chateauper’s gaze, but instead of the warmth of a friend, it was with an icy hostility, of a man who would no doubt become an enemy. She bit the inside of her cheek in anticipation and wasn’t even aware she’d drawn in breath and held it, until she felt herself exhale shakily through her nose, willing the sudden tension and stiffness in her shoulders to leave her, though she knew it would not. Not until these strange men had removed themselves from the cathedral and of her presence, for something about the one calling himself Laurent struck the inventor’s daughter as odd.

She did not particularly like the way that the man was looking at her. Laurent’s eyes dropped to Belle’s left hand, no doubt searching for any sign of a wedding ring, and when his gaze landed upon the simple gold ring, he scowled.

His eyes become as immobile as the rest of his face and was frozen for an entire three to four seconds before the corners of his mouth turned downward into an unpleasant smirk, and his eyes quit lingering upon Belle’s chest.

Belle felt her face flush pink in anger as a light blush speckled along her cheeks and she bit her tongue to refrain from commenting, for she believed if she allowed her temper to get the better of her, it would not end well for her.

The farmer’s gaze fell like an act of violence, a glare to stop Belle’s heart as she realized the man’s eyes were wild and unhinged, and his harsh glower, as his lips pursed into a thin line as his gaze flickered from the captain’s hardening stare and his companion’s, felt like it sucked something out of Belle. She visibly wilted before his first clipped word was uttered. “Let’s go, Henri,” Laurent growled, though not before returning his attentions to Belle and fixing the young woman with an angry sneer that curled the edges of his lips upwards. “You would do well, mademoiselle to avoid the upstairs level of the cathedral at any cost. Do not go above the main sanctuary of this place, or you will soon find yourself in the demon’s lair, and after that, there is very likely possibility that you shall not return from it once you are there.”

Belle felt her jaw drop open in shock and she stomped her foot in a moment of frustration, the words pouring out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Monsieur, but if you could hear yourself speak these words, I think you would be appalled at what you say. So much talk of respect,” she spat venomously. “You are not respectful, Monsieur …Laurent,” she began hesitantly. “You are a worm. You…horrendous haddock, you should take back your words, for that boy up there does not deserve what you say!” she shouted, feeling her temper swell inexplicably in the pit of her stomach, hot. Hotter than any fire a dragon could flame, she could taste the bitter acidic bile coating the back of her throat. Her face flushed hot in anger as the man called Laurent laughed heartlessly at Belle’s words, looking down at the young woman as if she were just a child, begging him for pity. But Belle was not. Instead of lowering her head, she lifted it, a stony glower carved into her dark eyes, which under normal circumstances and in better company, quite kind.

Fury blurred her sight, but Belle tightened her jaw and glared at the simple farmer and the miller as they stared.

“How _dare_ you open your mouth and speak out of turn to me. You…you little _putain_ ,” growled the one called Henri, his eyes narrowing in anger as he took a step forward, which Lieutenant de Marten counteracted by stepping in front of Belle, an arm out in front of him as though to shield the maiden from harm, “I know naught where you come from, just as you naught of what you speak. You do not know the _monster_ , _what he is_ , mademoiselle, and for your sake, I pray that you never do, but here in Paris, there are _punishments_ when a woman dares to speak out of turn as you have just done.” Henri growled and moved to reach for Belle, but Phoebus’s lieutenant standing in his way prevented the man from doing so, for which Belle was immensely grateful, and she exhaled a shaking breath as she felt Captain Phoebus come to stand by her side and place a gentle but firm hand upon her right shoulder. When at last the captain of the guard turned to face Belle, she was surprised to see how red his face was becoming. His hazel eyes were narrowed, rigid, and hard, cold. In that moment, Belle recognized the captain was already far away. These men, these parishioners, were now the soldier’s enemy, given how rudely they had spoken towards Belle, and spoken ill of this supposed caretaker who resided within the cathedral’s walls, this bell ringer.

“You will be safe here, Belle. I promise. Let me escort them out of here. Frederic will ensure you find the Archdeacon. Claim sanctuary here, mademoiselle, and no one, whoever is after you, shall touch you. I can guarantee it,” he murmured under his breath, lowering his voice so that only she could hear him. His jaw clenched and he seized both men by their arms and dragged them towards the front wide oak double doors of the main level of the sanctuary.

Belle drew in a deep breath, the burning hard stare of Captain Phoebus’s as he escorted the pair of men towards the door would last only as long as it would take the blond-haired captain of the guard to think of the most brutally cutting thing he could tear those parishioners with, and Belle did not bother to stifle the ghost of a smile that tugged at the corners of her lips as she could hear the captain’s faint swearing under his breath as he led the men away from Belle, uttering such blasphemous words and vile curses that spewed from his tongue that were Phoebus in the presence of the Archdeacon or a priest or nun of the cathedral, he would most assuredly be admonished for daring to utter such foul language upon Holy Ground in a house of God. Belle knitted her brows together in confusion as she turned towards the stairwell.

“I know you are thinking of doing it.” Lieutenant Frederic de Marten’s soft voice cut through Belle’s thoughts, jolting her back to the present moment. Furtively, and with a guilty look in her eyes, she painfully twisted her hands together and turned to face Phoebus’s lieutenant, whose arms were folded across his burly chest and regarding the young brunette with something akin to amusement in his eyes. “Going up there,” he clarified, noticing Belle frown and her brows knit together in confusion as he gave a jerk of his head towards the stairwell which they now stood in front of. “You are curious.” It was not a question, but rather a statement, one which Belle could not argue, so she opted to nod instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” Belle asked, somewhat defensively, feeling her hackles begin to rise. She curled her hand into a fist over the strap of her small satchel as she slung it across her shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to find the Archdeacon and request permission to stay, and that there might be a place that she could sleep.

Frederic immediately raised his hands in self-defense. “Easy, milady,” he smiled, his green eyes twinkling playfully. “I meant no offense. I merely caution you to be careful. The cathedral’s bell ringer is a…” But then his voice trailed off, his smile faltered, and Belle quirked a brow the lieutenant’s way as she watched as the young man bit his lip in hesitation, seemingly struggle to find the appropriate words to describe what thought was plaguing his mind. “A friend to the captain,” he finished, turning away from Belle for a moment. “It troubles Captain de Chateaupers whenever someone speaks ill of the cathedral’s bell ringer, for my commanding officer very much considers the younger man a friend to him.”

Belle frowned, folding her arms across her chest. _Perhaps then that boy that I spotted lurking behind the pillar only a few moments ago was this mysterious bell ringer then_ , her conscience offered as it struggled to piece everything together.

“Why do the townspeople speak ill of him?” she questioned carefully, hoping her tone and facial expression remained neutral, though she could not deny her curiosity was practically overwhelming her as she allowed Frederic to lead her down a dark and dimly lit hallway, hopefully in search of the Archdeacon or another who could offer her sanctuary.

It did not escape Belle’s attentions how the lieutenant’s face paled, and a muscle in the man’s jaw twitched. It was a topic Lieutenant Frederic de Marten was clearly uncomfortable discussing with Belle. It seemed to take him ages to find his voice, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “He has…had a difficult life. More than most. It does not help that his…father is a…” _tyrannical heretic_ , is what the lieutenant wanted to say, but restrained himself. “ _Challenge_ ,” he finished instead, though the bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “The cathedral’s bell ringer is a friend to my captain. They’ve been friends about a year or two now, I think. The boy saved Phoebus’s life, and the captain feels he owes the boy his life,” Frederic finished, the word escaping him as more of a growl rather than a spoken word uttered.

“I see. Well. The captain should consider himself lucky, to have a friend who would risk his own life for him. Perhaps if I am going to be staying here, I will run into this mysterious bell ringer at some point in time.” Belle pursed her lips into a thin line as the lieutenant came to a stop in front of a small wooden door that happened to be closed. “Is this where you must leave me to my own devices, Lieutenant de Marten?” she asked, allowing a wry smile to cross her lips.

“It is.” Frederic dipped his head acknowledgment, though he sounded regretful of that fact. Belle chuckled as she realized the man probably wanted nothing more than to stay within the cathedral’s walls and escort her around. “I am afraid the captain and I must return to patrolling those damned woods in search for nonexistent wolves by order of His Grace our King, though what he expects us to find is beyond me, Belle,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, right at the moment his captain returned, a scowl upon his handsome, chiseled features, though he allowed his face to relax into a smile as Phoebus’s expression softened as his kind gaze came to rest upon Belle.

“Milady,” Captain Phoebus murmured, grasping Belle’s right hand in his own and bringing her knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss. “I am afraid this is where Frederic and I must leave you, mademoiselle. I can, however, leave you in peace. Rest assured that those men from earlier have been dealt with, and should they trouble you further during your stay here in Notre Dame, please don’t hesitate to inform myself or Frederic and the matter shall be handled for you at once.”

“You will find the Archdeacon in there,” the lieutenant added, almost as an afterthought as he pointed towards the door that he had purposefully stopped in front of. “No doubt those old nuns are chatting up a storm with the man even now as we speak. He will grant you sanctuary, that much the captain and I are certain. You need not reveal the…nature of your stay if you should not wish to. Whatever you were running from in those woods will not find you here. I hope that our paths will cross again, beautiful lady. And…should you run into the judge, mademoiselle…watch yourself.”

“The man is not a pleasant man to be around even in the best of times,” growled Phoebus darkly, though he caught Belle’s inquisitive stare and winked. “Our paths will cross again, milady, I am sure of it. Until then…be careful, Belle.”

Belle nodded, dipping into a low, brief curtsy and straightening as she watched the pair of soldiers quietly converse amongst themselves as they strolled at a leisurely pace, clearly not eager to return to those dark woods, and she waited until the two men rounded the corner of the corridor and completely disappeared from Belle’s line of sight.

Belle stared down the now-deserted corridor and bit the inside of her cheek, digging her nails into her palms. It hurt, but she pushed past the pain and ignored it. She let out an exhausted sigh and drifted her hand to rest on her satchel’s strap and gave it an affectionate pat, blinking back briny tears as thoughts of her father came to the forefront of her mind.

Once again, her fear found her. It spoke to her in its cackling voice. It told her legs to go weak, her stomach to lurch, and her heart to ache at the thought of whatever unspeakable torments her husband might be unleashing upon her Papa at this very moment. No doubt Gaston had already discovered her absence. Her Papa had told her once that there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but still…Belle could not silence its voice, and so, she allowed a single tear to fall.

Tear after tear made no difference. She felt she was unconscious to the abundance of her feelings that subjected Belle to this constant torment and threatened to drive her crazy. Oh, how _stupid_ she had been, to agree to marry Gaston!

Belle felt as though even in the entire year of courtship prior to their marriage, she did not really know the man as well as she liked to claim that she did in her vain attempt to fool both herself and her father. So reluctant was she to facing the hard truth that now that she’d had no other choice but to flee from Gaston, for she was trying so hard to stop this vicious secular cycle her mind was turning these facts into. She only had begun to know him now that they were wed, and already, she was overwhelmed by what she knew, and the taxing events of the day. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. So frantic of Gaston’s deceitfulness of the forthcoming actuality of what kind of man that he really was. And each time Gaston would part his lips to speak to Belle, she would tremble and shiver, look at Gaston with pleading eyes.

Hoping. Just hoping. Not to hear the words that without doubt spilled salt into these open wounds on Belle’s heart.

A heavy, unnatural silence settled over Belle as she lingered outside the little wooden door that appeared to lead to the kitchens, thicker than the uneasy tension in the desolate atmosphere. Belle bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, pondering just how it was that she had landed herself in this unfortunate predicament and how it was that she could safely send for her father without alerting Gaston to her presence in Paris, and wondering what story her Papa had invented in order to throw Gaston’s suspicions off her trail, when a shuffling noise coming from directly behind broke her out of her musings.

The heavy pounding footfalls told Belle that the steps were too heavy to belong to a woman. Belle swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and turned around slowly as a baritone voice echoed throughout the abandoned hallway.

“What are you doing in here?” The voice was deep, low and soft, but powerful enough to send a chill of fear throughout Belle’s body as a tremor went down her spine and she gulped as she turned to face a tall, imposing figure clad in a set of neat, pristine black robes, a chaperone perched atop his head, and a rosary clutched in his withered hands.

Belle lifted her chin to meet the man’s cold, listless gray eyes. His voice had a rich, silky tone, and he spoke as if he controlled the entire country of France, his experience and wisdom of his fifty-one years seeping through his voice.

He reminded Belle of a stormy day, and not necessarily a good one. Belle gaped only as she observed the stranger’s sharp jaw, chin, and cheekbones. On either side of his slender, straight nose were two blazing bright gray eyes.

His dark brows were actually quite graceful, but currently furrowed in a frown as he regarded Belle suspiciously. The man, at his age of fifty and one, was fitting looking than Belle had expected. His face told of a lean body beneath his black robes, and his expression, though serious in the moment given the situation, was serious but not necessarily unkind.

The man had a salt and pepper look to his hair, against his still youthful skin, even Belle had to admit it suited him.

As Belle’s gaze briefly wandered the length of the man’s body, assessing his features and his choice of clothing, she gulped nervously as she recollected the captain and the lieutenant of the king’s guards words. How a judge here in Paris was said to be reviled, and something of an unpleasant man, and the inventor’s daughter knew that as she looked upon his eyes, at the listlessness there, that she had to be staring into the eyes of none other than Judge Claude Frollo.


	7. A Conversation

**CHAPTER SIX**

The silence in the hallway as Belle dared to stare into the judge's eyes was practically deafening, and Belle could swear she felt a ringing in her ears. Though the man did not exactly press her angrily for an answer, he gave off the air of someone who was rather impatient, and she figured it would be wise to pursue a truthful answer with the judge, especially given within the walls that she found herself, Belle surmised it would be unwise to arouse the man's ire further and lie on Holy Ground in a house of God. Though she was sorely tempted, Belle liked to believe that were her Papa here by her side, he would not approve of the urge and would convince her to tell the truth, and it was this thought of her father back home that convinced her lips to part and for the truth to pour from her lips.

"I have come to claim sanctuary, monsieur. My…arrival here was rather unexpected, I will admit, but…I can only pray that my presence within the church itself will cause no trouble to anyone. I shall try not to be a burden, Your Grace, and if there is any way that I can help the cathedral's caretakers during my…stay here, then I shall do so without hesitation. It would be my honor," she mumbled quietly, the heat speckling along her cheeks, and Belle quickly remembered her manners as she gathered the skirts of her gown and dipped into a low curtsy, all the while keeping her gaze fixated upon the man's black boots, not wanting to meet the judge's eyes.

Though she knew she would have no choice. She could not very well stare at the during for the entire duration of their conversation, no matter how awkward the tension in this narrow hallway felt. However, it did not stop the inventor's daughter from wishing that a hole beneath the black and white checkered tile beneath her boots would open up and swallow her whole, and she could disappear into that sweet darkness of nothingness until the judge had vacated the premises, for if he questioned her further about the reason as to her claim to sanctuary within Notre Dame, well…Belle believed he would not take kindly to learning the truth. That she fled _him_.

Belle inhaled a sharp, shaking breath and wasn't even aware that she was holding her breath until she felt the judge reach out a hand and place a surprisingly gentle hand upon her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "Stay as long as you need," his deep baritone voice rumbled. "Might I inquire as the reason behind your claim to sanctuary, my child?"

Damn. The one question she was hoping to avoid at any cost, and naturally, it was the first follow up question the man asked. Belle bit the inside of her cheek and painfully wrung her hands together, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. "I…" The inventor's daughter could feel beads of sweat forming upon her brow, and she could tell by the way the judge's piercing gray eyes that felt like they possessed the power to burn a hole into the back of her skull like a branding iron, that he was somewhat impatiently awaiting her answer. "My family, they…" _are lost_ , her conscience finished for her, though Belle could not bring her mouth to the utter the simple truth in front of the judge. That she had run away from her husband.

 _My husband is a man who abuses me at every opportunity, has no regard whatsoever for my honor_. To her great relief, something akin to sympathy darted through the distinguished judge's gray orbs, and the corners of his thin mouth turned upwards into a genuine smile, and he finally relinquished his hold upon Belle's shoulder, for which she was secretly grateful. She exhaled a shaking breath and turned away from the door that undoubtedly led to the kitchens. Belle blinked owlishly a couple of times as she turned back towards the judge as she realized he was speaking.

"Many have lost family members, my child, to Paris' wars. You are not alone in that regard. I am…sorry for your loss," he stated sympathetically, though Belle quirked her brow the judge's way at the expression of sentimentality. "These are dark times, there is no denying that. Our great city has perhaps faced no greater that than it does today, no thanks in part to these heathen wretches and pestilent people that infect and populate our great city. The Romani race are a plague among Paris, mademoiselle. Should you venture beyond these walls and out into the town, I would take great care where you wander, my child. Their kind think themselves above the natural order of the law and seek every opportunity available to them to break it. They are rats and nothing more, and what do you do with a filthy rat, child?"

Belle bit the inside of her cheek as she felt her temper rapidly swell. For an imposing figure of authority, the inventor's daughter was quick to determine that this man, if this was indeed the feared and reviled Judge Claude Frollo of Paris, the first few sentences out of the aging man's mouth told the young woman everything she wished to know of this man standing towering before her. That he believed that his word was the only right word regarding the matter, and those who would seek to defy and challenge his stead would find themselves at a severe disadvantage, possibly even arrested.

 _He's no different than Gaston or the other villagers. Not even our land's prince who heavily taxes our village is this arrogant. This judge may claim to be a righteous man if the rumors are true of him that Captain Phoebus told me, but he is a pious man, and nothing remains of him save for a bitter old shell of the man that he once was in his youth_ , she thought bitterly. The young lord, a man named Adam, was spoiled, incredibly wealthy beyond compare, and arrogant.

Sensing the judge expected of her a response, she bit her tongue and finally found her voice, though when she spoke, her words were soft, timid, and dangerously quiet. Belle closed her eyes, willing the tension in her shoulders to leave her.

She hated that after a few months of marriage towards Gaston Dupont, it was unfortunate that the man's temper was slowly rubbing off on his wife. "What do you do with a rat, monsieur? Do you…" Belle hesitated, unsure if she wanted to know the answer, but recognizing that she had already well approached the point of no return with this man in the turn their conversation had taken. "Do you kill it?" she breathed, her dark eyes widening as the judge nodded mutely.

The judge smiled at Belle, seemingly impressed by Belle's response, though the smile did not reach the man's cold, listless eyes, and she repressed a shudder of fear as it traveled down her spine and towards the tips of her toes in her boots.

"Very good. I, among the rest of my forces within the city's limits, have been diligently devoting my life's work while I serve His Majesty our King to rid the good people of Paris of these horrible vermin. These _gypsies_ ," here, Frollo spat the slur as though it were poison in his mouth. Belle furrowed her brows together and frowned at the insult, but the older man appeared not to notice the inventor's daughter's growing discomfort, "grow in numbers every day. Why our king allows them to remain within the city is beyond me, mademoiselle. Were I in a better position of power, they would be hunted down like the dogs that I all know them to be and captured. The worst ones would be killed, dear."

Belle blinked, feeling what little color was left in her face completely drain. "I…" she stammered, her voice trailing off as the inventor's daughter was unable to articulate an apt response to adequately reveal her true feelings regarding the matter at hand. "Wh—why, monsieur?" she squeaked in a breathless voice that was so soft, for a moment, she wondered if she had even spoken it at all. "They are merely human, Your Honor. No less human than you or me, surely, Your Grace. Do they not deserve kindness and compassion. We should treat others as you would wish them to treat you."

The judge blinked, startled at her line of questions. "You are well educated, milady. I can tell that you come from a gentle breeding and good stock, and whoever raised you from birth has done an adequate job of teaching you. Our Lord Jesus once said something very similar, but I believe you already know it." The aging judge placed a slightly clawed and withered hand upon her left shoulder and steered her towards the front of the hallway and pointed in the distance. "You see Him hanging on the cross there. A sign of His sacrifice for the greater good of mankind. We must not let His sacrifice be in vain, and in that regard, you would normally be right. However, I am afraid that I must correct you, mademoiselle. There is unfortunately…no good left in those filthy people. I have tried countless methods for years to reason with them, and yet, for all my efforts, they continue to plunder, pillage, steal, and rape, with _no_ regard for how the world works. And as for me…I…I am nothing more than a visionary with a simple dream, child. To see the world become a better place than what it is today, so that our children and their children's children might grow and thrive. I acknowledge that at times, I have…odd methods, but they work. I know what life should be like and I understand that so many people are inferior to me, especially you females. In my position, it is simply mercy. I know if I don't save your kind with the wonders of death, you all will die with the horrors of life. It is simply the way of the world, mademoiselle."

The bitterness in the man's tone was unmistakable, and Belle's steely expression in her dark eyes softened as she dared to look into the man's gray eyes. The judge must have sensed the inventor's daughter studying his expression, for the man coughed once to clear his throat, raising a hand to his mouth and turning away, and when he turned again to face Belle, the familiar expression of listlessness was once again etched upon his aged and lined features. "I am keeping you from enjoying the cathedral," he murmured in a low growl that sounded more to Belle like a warning than anything else.

Belle dipped her head in acknowledgement, not wanting to forget her place in society. The judge held the power within his hands to arrest her for speaking out of turn, if he was of a mind too, and now that she had been freed of those wretched woods, she did not want to risk her only claim to sanctuary here by giving the man just cause to doubt her.

The judge sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I am late for another appointment, and I am afraid that I cannot stay, or I would show you to the spare cloister cells where I am certain one of our monks or lay brothers could assist in finding you a spare room and a cot. You will find the Archdeacon of Josas through those doors behind you, mademoiselle. Best of luck to you during your time while you stay with us." The judge bowed and left.

Belle blinked, watching the man's billowing black robes swish and flow with his movements, and breathed a shaking sigh of relief as she watched as he rounded the corner and completely vanished from the inventor's daughter's sight. Turning back around and raising her knuckles towards the door, fully prepared to knock, Belle let out a startled yelp of surprise as she found herself face-to-face with the Archdeacon himself, who was in turn smiling kindly at the young girl.

"You are here to claim sanctuary, yes?" the man asked, though coming from him, it did not sound like a question, but rather a statement.

She sank low into a curtsy, she flushed and attempted to express her gratitude gracefully, but it only came out in stammers. "Sir, thank you, yes, I am. I take it you overheard my conversation but a moment ago. I—I cannot tell you how grateful I am, I…Your Grace," she murmured softly, not wanting to get up from her curtsy as she stared at the man's sandals, not wanting to meet his eyes.

How could she have not known who he was?

"None of that, my child," the Archdeacon responded softly, his voice a deep, soothing baritone. "Please. Call me by my name. My name is Luc, my child."

"I cannot," she choked, standing, and brushing her hands on her skirts, still refusing to meet his eyes. "Your Grace," she corrected herself, internally cursing herself for being so forgetful and stupid. _Not_ _a great first impression, Belle. Wonderful._ Chuckling slightly, Archdeacon Luc held up a hand to stop her, smiling kindly. The lines on his face were etched deep. The head of the church had a tuft of thick white hair and white sideburns.

But it was his eyes she was drawn to the most, however. The man's eyes were a brilliant green, the green that brought the earth back to life after an unforgiving cold. The green that revived grass from the harshest of winters, the green that even in the darkest of days was the light that would show you the way home.

The Archdeacon Luc of Josas was a man of many cares. She could tell he cared for Notre Dame greatly by his movements, the way he took his time in lighting the candelabras, providing a little light and a warm glow throughout the otherwise dimly lit cathedral. She was amazed at how quickly the massive church warmed despite the grueling temperatures of the thunderstorm outside.

Belle hung her head in shame, feeling unworthy to be in such a magnificent refuge, given the state of her appearance. Thanks to Gaston's remarks and taunts, she'd always been self-conscious about her appearance. Tonight was no exception.

Glancing down at her blue velvet gown with the long flared tow sleeves, a gift from Gaston last year on her name day, she did her best to smooth away the dirt and grime from her travels. Belle's brunette hair was a thousand shades of brown, and she hated that even here in this place of refuge, he was with her, Gaston tormented and plagued her mind. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheeks, but it did nothing to take away from her natural beauty. Belle had been gifted with her mother's beauty, inheriting her prominent cheekbones and jawline, and an elegant, swan-like neck.

She had her mother's eyes—a piercing brown color, though hers were lit with a sadness that was almost unbearable. Her eyes were unsettling but hauntingly beautiful. The woman's eyes framed by graceful brows, Gaston had always insisted she take care of her appearance, that she highlight her natural beauty so that she could be his little trophy wife.

Noticing her discomfort over the state of her attire, Archdeacon Luc smiled gently, the corners of his mouth turning in a small half-smile as he looked at her, his green eyes twinkling slightly in his amusement. His smile was infectious, and she blushed, embarrassed at not knowing what to say to someone who was only a step below the Bishop. "You play, milady?" he asked, gesturing to a lyre in her hands.

She glanced down and flinched. She'd forgotten all about it and had quite forgotten that she'd packed it in her satchel. It was relatively small and weighed very little. Belle enjoyed playing for her father while he painted.

"I—yes, I—I do, Your Grace," she admitted quietly.

"Perhaps you might play for our parishioners and our caretakers sometime?" he suggested kindly. "It's been some time since they've heard professional music and I am sure they would love it. It might be just what they need to lift their spirits."

Belle nodded shyly. "Of course," she whispered.

The Archdeacon gave the young woman another glance and noticed how uncomfortable and nervous she was, twitchy and flighty, she was clearly a young woman who was uncomfortable in the presence of human beings, much like their own bell ringer was. It became obvious to him that she was seeking refuge from someone who had harmed and mistreated her horribly. "Don't worry, child, for you are welcome here as long as you need. We do not judge here; this is Holy Ground. Stay with us, and you will be safe, I guarantee it."

She almost cried tears of gratitude. Those words uttered to her now meant more than anything she'd ever heard in her entire life. Belle grasped the Archdeacon's hands in hers, gripping them tight as she trembled, and her nervous demeanor growing worse. _Am I truly safe here? Have I found a home in this holy place?_

"Thank you, Your Grace. I'm afraid my current situation has left me…indisposed," she said carefully, mindful of her tone around the archdeacon. "He, my husband he—he said that I... well, must I say it?" Her voice trailed off, and she was unable to finish her thought. If she could help it, she'd never go back to Gaston.

Archdeacon Luc's kind eyes narrowed as he assessed her condition carefully with a trained eye. This woman was quite a beauty; even he had to admit it. Flawless pale skin, a petite, slender figure, and her dress looked practically new. The gown she wore suggested she was of nobility. If he had to guess, and he was usually right about such things, having seen many broken women in his life, that the girl's husband had gifted it to her in an attempt to win her favor.

The gown she wore was a long dark blue velvet gown with gold braided embroidery. The fabric was draped in rich architectural pleats; the waistline was high, which only emphasized her slim, elongated silhouette. The sleeves of the garment were long and wide with turnbacks. The hood draped elegantly over the back, giving off the appearance that this woman, whoever she was, was a queen or a wanderer in exile, an ambassador of God. _It's beautiful..._

He did notice she had a small cut above her left eyebrow and a purple bruise underneath her right eye that was beginning to yellow slightly as it aged and healed. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pain was evident in the crease of her lovely brow and the down curve of her full lips, but especially in her eyes. Her eyes showed Archdeacon Luc her very soul, battered and broken, but hopeful, nonetheless.

There was no doubt in his mind now. This girl—whoever she was—was the victim of abuse and severe trauma at the hands of her husband, who she had no doubt fled from, and was now at Notre Dame, seeking sanctuary from the vile beast who would hurt her. "What's your name, child?" he asked quietly.

"Belle, monsieur. Belle…Dupont," she responded, her voice barely a whisper. She cringed and bit the inside of her cheek. The Dupont family name was well established and known throughout Paris, and she was quite certain the moment the name left her lips that he would immediately turn her away upon knowing whom she was married to.

But to her surprise, he did not. If he was familiar with Gaston's family, the Archdeacon of Josas gave no indication that he was familiar or that he cared, for which Belle was immensely relieved.

"Stay with us, Belle," he said firmly, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. He smiled at the brunette and hoped it was genuine and reached his eyes, even though internally, he was troubled. They had not had a woman claim sanctuary here in years, not since La Esmeralda all those months ago.

"Oh, but I…" she started, but once again, he stopped her.

"I won't take no for an answer, my dear. Stay with us."

"Are you sure? I—I don't want to impose."

"Of this I am certain," he said calmly. "Notre Dame is home to you now. You'll be safe here, my child. Claim sanctuary, and your master cannot touch you. I will make sure of it. We have guards stationed outside throughout the day. One of our priests will also serve as an adequate protector to you if you will have him by your side. He is one of our finest we could ever ask for and are blessed to have him here with us. Father Darius will protect you, milady. He has…"

The Archdeacon paused as his voice trailed off, not wanting to reveal the complex nature of Darius's past. It was not his information to divulge, Darius would always have to be the one should he ever wish to confide in anyone else but him.

At last, he continued. "He has experience with situations such as yours, Belle. The man is not much older than you. He was a soldier once. He lost his wife and came to the cathedral during a time of great need. He has…proven useful around here with...certain matters, so I allowed him to stay under the condition that he be available to help for situations such as yours, mademoiselle. I am afraid I cannot say more than that. You will be safe with him by your side. I can guarantee it. No one will touch you."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Belle felt her tears brimming and brushed them away, refusing to allow herself to cry in front of the Archdeacon of Notre Dame. "What you are offering means the world to me, sir."

"It's no trouble to us, we have plenty of room. There are plenty of rooms available in the cloisters; we can let you stay in one of the rooms, as long as you don't mind sharing quarters near Alice and Jeanne, our resident nuns. They mean well, but they can be…a handful," he chuckled to himself, not noticing the petite brunette's confused expression. Turning his attention back to Belle, he smiled. "Notre Dame is your home now, milady. Stay. Now, my child, as much as I would love to stay and chat with you, I am afraid I must attend to my other duties. But if you will wait a moment, Father Darius will show you where you may sleep. He will also get you something to eat if you are hungry, but I should take care to inform you, mademoiselle that there will be a supper in the kitchens tonight if you should like to join us, as we did not expect such atrocious weather to occur," he said, at the exact moment that a loud crack of thunder rent the night air outside. "Quite sudden, actually. In the meantime, if you would like to make yourself comfortable while you wait, perhaps you could play some music for our parishioners?" he suggested quietly, chuckling at her bemused expression. "It might be just the thing they need to lift their spirits, to listen to wonderful music played by an expert such as yourself. It's been so long for most of them, most here, they have nothing."

Belle nodded. "Of course. It's the very least I can do to repay your generosity in letting me stay here. May I play right now?" she asked, quirking a brow at the archdeacon as she waited for him to speak again.

"Please do. We would love to hear how well you play."

She dipped her head in thanks, turning around and finding a chair that would be suitable to her needs, dragging it over underneath a giant stained glass window in the shape of a beautiful rose.

Belle cracked her knuckles and stretched the muscles in her fingers before taking the lyre in her lap and beginning to play. She willed her pain and grief to flow from her fingers and into the soul of her music. The young woman didn't notice a few of the parishioners stop and turn their heads at the beautiful music as the soothing chords filled the church's halls. Their eyes were transfixed on her as she played, low jealous murmurs among the women about her beauty, and more than a few lewd suggestions from the men. She didn't pay attention to any of it.

Archdeacon Luc and a priest had stopped their duties to listen as well. The woman was a talented musician, whoever had taught her how to play had spared no expense. Archdeacon Luc leaned in close and whispered something inaudible in the priest's ear. The priest nodded in acknowledgment and wished the Archdeacon a good night, never taking his eyes off the woman before him.

Whoever this woman was, she was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, next to his Hanna. The brunette's woman beauty was unmatched. _How like my Hanna she looks, the resemblance is almost frightening_ , the young priest thought, in shock. She was a goddess of light, of love, of warmth. Aphrodite as a mortal. Venus, Freyja, Aurora. This woman could be any one of them trapped in her mortal form. This girl had to be an apparition, because how her form shimmered and wavered in the light.

The gown she wore suggested she was an ambassador of a God from a faraway land, come to break Darius out of his long term suffering, to speak to him of his pain he could not articulate. For too long the suffering of the world and his own pain had locked him inside his own mind, his own prison and a resurgence of love was his only hope for salvation.

But he could see the same pain reflected back at him in this woman's eyes as their gaze met and their eyes locked, both drawn to each other and unable to look away. The priest knew from Archdeacon Luc that this woman had been abused by a master that she fled from. The Archdeacon had taken it upon himself to assign Darius as her protector, a role he gladly accepted without hesitation. He knew the Archdeacon considered him a champion of the weary, a soldier born with a hero's heart. Darius was the one who would lift up the broken. He was a man who would give his very life and limb to protect this woman, for God loved the brave soul, the noble spirit, and the one who protects. By God, he would protect her with his life.

As he reflected on this thought, Darius found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the brunette as she played. Darius was drawn to her. _Is it because when I look at her, I see Hanna staring back at me? They have the same eyes, the same face. I—I have to know who she is. Oh, Hanna, I'm so sorry for everything…_

Belle was so engrossed in playing, she didn't notice the priest listening in the shadows and quietly approach her from behind, or the small crowd of people who had become entranced in her playing and had stopped to listen.

The priest hid in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reveal his presence. He stepped out of the darkness and into her view, and she locked eyes with the young priest and smiled, the smile not reaching her eyes.

The first thing she noticed about the father was that he was surprisingly handsome and young, looking to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. What he was doing here serving the faith, she didn't know, but the man intrigued Belle, that much she knew. _What is someone this good-looking doing as a priest?_

Tall and imposing, with a muscular build underneath his black monk's habit, she mused that had he chosen a different path, he might have once in a previous life been a great soldier, a warrior for the people. He had a strong chiseled jaw and brilliant blue eyes, and a kind smile, revealing white teeth when he smiled at her. The priest had a thick tuft of dark hair cropped close and neat, his pale skin emphasizing the blue in his eyes nicely.

As she played, her eyes never leaving his, she couldn't help but notice how the handsome priest was staring at her, a stunned expression on his face. It was almost as if…as if they had met before. She was certain they hadn't, but even she had to admit, there was a familiarity about the man she liked the feeling of.

As if she'd known him all her life. The feeling was new to her, but she welcomed it. She finished her song with a lingering chord, the final note resonating in the great hall long after she'd finished.

"Beautiful," he said quietly in a German accent when the chord died and the crowd around them dispersed, some of them commenting on her skills as they passed, others on her beauty. His words carried a double meaning, and the priest hoped the woman before him would never learn it.

"Father," Belle responded softly, smiling as she looked upon him. There was something about him, but she couldn't place it. No matter. She would dwell on it later. "Thank you," she said. "My name is Belle. It's nice to meet you, I—I've claimed sanctuary here, possibly indefinitely. I don't know how long I'll stay, but I hope my presence here in the church will cause no trouble." She found herself inexplicably drawn to his brilliant blue eyes.

As calm as the sky before a storm, but as wild as the sea during one. Those were his eyes. The man's eyes were as bright as sapphires. Belle always used to believe blue eyes were ice cold, and never knew warmth or shared love. That's what she used to believe. But now she knew as she looked into the father's eyes, the hottest fires always burned blue.

The man's eyes were bewitching. The faint glimmer of the moonlight ghosted over his pale skin and eyes as deep as the heart of the sea. And when his eyes shifted and acknowledged her presence, a surge of understanding calmed and mystified her at the same time.

From the moment she first laid eyes on the man, she knew he could never be hers, nor she his.

The priest shook his head, smiling kindly. "The pleasure is mine. And please, call me Darius, I prefer it. And you are quite welcome, my dear. You play beautifully," he said, gesturing to her lyre as she packed it away. "Where are you from, milady? Are you native to France? Your accent is French, but you've a look about you," he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. He offered the young woman his arm and smiled warmly at her. "Come with me, I'll show you around," he offered quietly, still stealing a glance at her every few moments. "It can be a maze in here if you don't know where to go, but I am sure in no time, you'll have the paths memorized."

Belle gratefully accepted his arm as they began to walk through the magnificent cathedral, their steps echoing in the corridors, which were silent save for their footsteps. "Thank you," she said. "And yes, I am Parisian. I've lived on the outskirts of Paris my entire life. My father, he moved us here during one of the wars when home became too unsafe, but we're originally from Saint Paul de Vence, you know the area?"

"I do," he said, smiling at her. "It's a lovely area, very quiet. Peaceful. There's no place quite like it, I'm afraid."

"It is," she agreed, nodding. "I miss it still, but Paris is my home now, as is Notre Dame, for how long she will house me," she said, craning her neck to gaze up at the beautiful stained glass artwork and all the relics.

Darius was still looking at her as though he knew who she was. He noticed her staring and he laughed quietly, his laughter charming, like him. "Forgive my behavior, milady. It was inappropriate for me to stare at you as I did. I—for a moment, you looked like someone I used to know in a past life. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable in anyway. Please. Forgive me."

"It's no trouble," she said, raising an eyebrow quizzically in his direction, wishing he would elaborate, but for now, she would drop the matter. _Who do I remind him of?_

"You must be starved," Darius said suddenly, clearly uncomfortable and desiring to turn her attention away from his peculiar behavior. "Have you eaten anything?"

"It's been some time since I've eaten last," she confessed, hanging her head in shame, and feeling embarrassed to be admitting this to the young priest. It shouldn't bother her so like this, and yet, it was.

"Forgive me, milady, where are my manners? You are our guest here. May I offer you something to eat? Whatever we have here is now yours. Don't be afraid to ask. Ask and it shall be given to you, milady. At this late hour, I don't know what we have left, but I'm happy to see what I can find for you, if you'd like. You must eat something."

Belle grinned, doing her best to ignore another violent protest from her stomach at the mention of food. "That would be wonderful, thank you, Darius."

He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and flashed another smile her way. She couldn't help returning the gesture. His smile was beautiful, charming. It had been so long since she'd seen a genuine smile, one that was warm.

Gaston's smile unnerved her whenever he did. His smile was vile and wicked; she knew whenever he smiled, he was imagining his latest act of violence and lewd daydreams about her. She'd always hated it when Gaston smiled. But this priest's was kind and gentle. She suppressed a shudder as a tremor traveled down her spine as she thought of Gaston, what he would say, what he would do to her when he found out she never intended to go back.

"Wait here," Darius instructed. "I'll return in a moment. Please, make yourself comfortable, I won't be long." The priest smiled at her again, retreating to the kitchens to fetch her something to eat, leaving Belle along to take in her surroundings. Never in her life had she seen such gorgeous stained glass artwork or intricate Gothic details. She felt more at home here than she had during her year of courtship to Gaston, or even when she and Papa had lived in their simple cottage, just the two of them. But here, it was peaceful. Here, within these walls, Belle could not describe it, but she felt like...almost like she were home.

At the thought of home, a guilty pang pierced her heart. _Oh, Papa. This is not home yet. Not without you_. _Home_. _But this could be our home. Someday._

Something she'd not had in a long time. As Belle was pondering this simple thought and marveling how she wound up in this current predicament, the inventor's daughter was jolted out of her wanderings by the sound of a resonating, loud crash.


	8. Change is Coming

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

The noise startled the poor inventor's daughter, whose heart and mind were already frayed and on edge given everything that had happened to her over the last several hours alone, and she blinked rapidly as she felt herself turn on her heel to locate the source of the noise that had frightened her so badly. "Oh. I...I thought that I heard a noise. Was that you, who made that noise?" she squeaked, suddenly feeling breathless.

For her nerves were shot, and she wasn't quite sure how many more surprises in one evening she could take.

Someone, and Belle could not quite tell who it was given the distance between them, because the minute the candelabra had dropped to the checkered tile with a loud, resounding crash, had ducked behind a nearby white marble pillar and had, it would seem, taken quite an interest in watching her.

The voice rang out, disrupting the silence. "Y...yes, th-that was me, milady. I'm rather...c-clumsy a-at times. I h-hope that I did not startle you. M-my apologies."

Curious, the avid reader and inventor's daughter carefully crept forward for a closer look, setting her satchel down by her chair, forgetting about her bag for the time being. She quirked a brow at the shadow's way, for that was all the person was. Nothing more than a figure shrouded in the darkness, taking refuge behind the sanctity of the pillar. Clearly, the person was mortified and embarrassed beyond belief at having been caught, though given the timidity of this person and their shy nature, Belle did not think whoever was behind there meant her any ill will or harm or they would have done it already.

She briefly caught a glimpse of the shadow's figure moving, and she could have sworn she saw a flash of a vibrant red tuft of hair momentarily peek out from behind the column to see if anyone was alerted, and she stifled a genuine smile as Belle heard a barely inaudible gasp of surprise come from over by the pillar.

Belle bit the inside of her cheek and had to lift the skirts of her gown a bit to avoid tripping over the long hem and the train. _This damn thing is just getting in my way_ , Belle thought rather disgruntled.

Why her husband insisted on buying her such lavish dresses and expensive jewelry was beyond the inventor's daughter. As though he had thought he would be able to merely buy her love and affections.

Such cheap tactics had never worked on Belle, and it never would. Still, there was a small part of her that could not deny that even Gaston had good taste, for had she gone alone to the dressmaker's shop, she would have undoubtedly in her mind taken one look at the royal blue coloring of the velvet fabric and fallen in love with the material, and more likely than naught would have purchased it for herself then.

Belle could not help but to notice as she crept closer towards the pillar, how the shadowy figure seemed to retreat with himself. She recognized that familiar flash of red hair from earlier and she froze in her footsteps, thinking that if she advanced any further upon the young man that she would frighten him away. "It's all right. It was an accident," she soothed, one of her hands outstretched, as though she thought that might prevent the man from fleeing the vicinity a second time. She hoped her voice sounded calm and reassuring. "I mean you no harm. D—don't you want to come out into the light where I can see you?"

She heard a soft gasp and the person behind the pillar attempting to speak, but when they opened their mouth to speak, all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. When the person finally managed to find their voice, she was surprised to hear such a rich, melodious voice, soft and tenor like, that almost possessed a musical quality. The man's voice was kind, quiet and shy, though not with traces of boyhood that lingered, at least, not any that Belle could detect, and just by the sound of his voice alone and listening to the rich, soothing voice speak to her, she could tell the mysterious bell of the bell towers up above, if he was indeed who she suspected him to be, was not that much older than her.

A year or two, maybe, at best. Belle quirked a brow in the direction of the mysterious voice, wishing that he would search within and find the bravery to step from the shadows. She cared not for those who hid in the darkness. People like that made her think of Gaston.

At the thought of her husband, she crinkled her nose in disgust and vehemently shook her head, determined to not let thoughts of Gaston Dupont ruin her first evening away from that man in well over a year, though she could not stop the nagging guilty thoughts of leaving her Papa behind. She hoped soon that she could find a way to communicate a message to him that she had made it and was residing in Notre Dame, safe and sound, but for now, she wanted to talk to this man.

There would be time to come up with a plan to communicate with her Papa later, perhaps after the supper in the kitchens in a moment. If she was going to be staying within the cathedral for an undetermined amount of time, she wanted to get to know all of the caretakers. Including the mysterious and elusive bell ringer who was the topic of much gossip among the simple-minded peasant folk.

"N—no," he stammered, and Belle made no further attempt to step forward and behind the pillar, thus thereby revealing the face that belonged to this wondrous voice. "It is for your own benefit that I remain here. Were that I stepped out... I would only frighten you, milady. N-no. It's better this way."

The mysterious man's words broke her heart, and Belle could swear she felt an uncomfortable pit forming deep within her stomach, to hear such an anguished bitterness laced throughout that magnificent voice, and for a moment, Belle felt a stab of pity and…something that she could not quite identify, prick at her heart and tug on the corded muscle within the confines of her chest.

"Oh, but I mean you no harm!" Belle pleaded, biting the inside of her cheek, and raising her hands in surrender, though she cursed herself as she realized the man was still hiding behind the massive marble pillar and could not see it. "Wouldn't you like to get to know each other better, face to face, monsieur?"

"N—y—yes, th—that would be lovely, b—but I—I can't," the voice stammered, suddenly sounding like he was on the verge of a panic attack, for the sound of his breaths were quick and pained, as though he could not regain enough air in his lungs. Belle felt her momentary smile of hope falter from her lips and her face fell, crestfallen, though given how anxious the poor man sounded, she decided not to push him.

"Then would you mind if I sat out here and talked with you a while? Th—this is my…my first night in the cathedral. I—I've claimed sanctuary and do not wish to be alone. I should very much like to make a friend," Belle encouraged kindly, glancing about the massive sanctuary for the chair she'd sat in only moments ago while playing her lyre, and upon spotting it, bolted forward, and dragged it over, wincing only once as the chair's legs made a horrible loud scraping noise, and the man did not speak again until Belle had gotten herself situated, adjusting the skirts of her gown and folding her hands in her lap.

It seemed ages before the illusive man found his voice. "You would…you would speak to me, and…be a friend, w—without seeing my…my face?" the man breathed, sounding as though he could hardly dare to believe the inventor's daughter's words.

Belle nodded, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, turning it upwards into a genuine smile.

"Yes. I would." Knowing the man behind the marble pillar could not see it, she smiled, unable to help herself, for it had been so long since someone other than her Papa had treated her with kindness and respect like this. First it had been Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers and his lieutenant, Frederic de Marten, who had led her out of the dark woods, and now, though she could not see his face, this church's bell ringer.

"Wh—why?" the man asked, his tone carrying a slight clipped and hard edge, which for a moment rendered Belle quite surprised and she blinked owlishly towards the pillar which she knew the young bell ringer was hiding behind, though she quickly came to realize that he was not angry with her. Merely curious. "You would befriend a _monster_?" Here, the man's voice spat the word as though it were a horrible poison that had settled upon his tongue. "Th—the others. They come. They laugh at me."

Belle bit her tongue as her temper threatened to implode to the surface for a second time tonight.

"Why?" She felt her hands in her lap ball into fists, her fingers shaking as her nails dug into her palms. "They would treat you so cruelly and insult you behind your back, but whatever on earth for, monsieur?"

"I…" But his voice trailed off and he gasped as a man's voice, shouting, rent the air, startling them both.

"You, bell ringer!" an older man shouted. "What are you doing down here this late in the night? Get out of here! Go back to the shadows where you belong, go back to your tower, you're not needed down here! Get out of here!"

The young man bolted up a flight of stone steps that appeared to lead one of the cathedral's bell towers.

Belle couldn't make out any details of his face or any of his other features from this distance, but she could infer from the way he moved that the young man was embarrassed. She felt her face grow hot in anger as she became annoyed with the parishioner who had shouted at the man.

Belle rapidly rose from her seat and stomped her foot in frustration, not caring if she made a scene in Holy Ground or not. "Apologize!" she demanded as the man finally took notice of Belle, his eyes narrowed and beady. "Now! What are you thinking, yelling at him like that?He had done nothing to you, that was you! You're out of line!"

"So, a _gypsy_ dares to enter this holy place?" he growled through gritted teeth, swiftly approaching the brunette, and grabbing her by her wrist. Belle swallowed as she recognized the man as the farmer, Laurent, from earlier.

Her dark eyes widened in fear and disgust. "You. I would mind your distance, monsieur," she snapped, disgusted, "for Captain de Chateaupers will not be pleased to see you within these walls again. And why not?" she shot back defiantly, wrenching her wrist away in disgust, rubbing it tenderly. "Tell me!"

"Because your kind aren't not allowed in here, that's why!"

"I am afraid I must correct you, monsieur! For I am not a Romani and I am no longer of..." simple blood, is what Belle had been about to say, but then decided against it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and continued. "What did they ever do to you?" she shouted. "Why do you hate the Romani people so much?" Belle said.

"More than you know. They killed my brother and uncle, all over a small pouch of coins, and left their bodies to drown in the River Seine," he retorted, his voice soft.

"You need to apologize to that man!" she demanded.

"Why should I?" the man challenged his face only inches from hers. She recoiled and backed away until she felt the cold of a stone pillar press against her back.

_Great. Now I have no way out if things get bad..._

"Do you go around treating people like that all the time?" she asked incredulously. "I hope not, for your sake! You should treat others as you'd wish them to treat you!"

"You're one to talk, _putain_!" he growled, grabbing her arm again. She tried to break away, but he was too strong. "You use your beauty to bewitch and mesmerize! There is a reason your name means 'beauty'. Your looks might have no parallel, mademoiselle, but I know what you really are, little witch."

Belle blinked, startled. "And what am I?" she shot back hotly, her hands on her hips. "My beauty is what I was born with! I can't help it!"

"A beauty that is given to you by God," the man called Laurent hissed. "A God who certainly did not intend you to use it in a... lascivious way. You twist the truth, girl. Your kind always does! You lie and deceive and do the Devil's work without shame or modesty. So typical of your kind to twist the truth to cloud the mind with unholy thoughts. Don't lie to me, girl, I see it in your eyes, you take pride in being a beautiful woman, girl!"

"My kind?" she roared. "What do you mean by that?"

"You're born of Romani scum, I can tell! You don the attire of nobles, but you are a free spirit! Something that is looked upon with scorn in these parts. Women don't _read_ ," he shouted, pointing a shaking finger towards Belle's open satchel that rested at the foot of the chair she'd been sitting in, where the edge of her favorite book, _Tristan and Iseult_ , that she'd managed to grab prior to leaving Gaston for good, poked out of the edge, his vice grip on her arm tightening, hard enough to break it. "Your kind aren't allowed in here, girl, so do us all a favor and remove yourself from our presence before you get hurt!"

"Last time I checked, you weren't the head of the church and can't tell me to do!" she shouted and smirked, raising an eyebrow as she enjoyed watching the man grow flustered as he struggled to think of a retort to say to her.

"Do you deny possessing the powers of black magic?"

Belle stared, dumbfounded at his accusation.

"If I had the powers of magic, why wouldn't I use them to help myself and the people of Paris?" she challenged.

"You..." he trailed off, disgruntled. "You're clever."

"You need to apologize," she repeated, taking a step back as the man continued to advance on her, a raving look in his eyes. She didn't like where this was heading.

"No. He's nothing but trouble, an unholy demon from the very depths of Hell itself. The boy's caused enough trouble for Paris already, he needs no one's help. God loves even a monster. That boy can take care of himself. He's—"

"He's no less human than you or I!" she yelled. "Someone—someone has to help him!" she cried, exasperated. "He doesn't deserve to be treated that way!"

"And you think that person can be you?" he scoffed.

 _Oh, God_ , she thought, suppressing a moan. _Where's the priest when I need him? It's getting out of hand. Father Darius, where are you? Please come, please hurry..._

"There must be some goodness in you," she protested, her eyes wildly darting in all directions as she looked for a way out. "You should apologize, and perhaps you can extend that kindness to those almost as unfortunate?"

"He doesn't need my apology, nor does he require your aid, girl. Like I told you, the boy's a recluse and belongs up there in his tower. He can fend for himself. He'll be fine."

Belle bit her tongue, silently seething, quite sure her face was turning red. "And that gives you the right to yell at him?"

"My dear," he said suddenly, a gleam in his eyes. "You have this look about you, you seem to indicate to me a willingness to learn. A soul who wishes to be saved and is already halfway there. I could instruct you," the man offered, biting his lip, and gripping her arm tight. "Teach you Our Lord's prayers and his ways. I'll help you."

" _You_?" she snapped, backing away against another pillar. "What makes you think you can save my soul? What makes you believe that I need saving?"

"You could come to the cathedral every day," the man explained, looking more unhinged the longer he went on his tangent. "I can instruct you. Or—or better yet, you could come home. With me," he offered. The look in his eyes was wild, and not altogether there, she knew it.

"I—I don't think that would be a good idea," she stammered, almost tripping over the hem of her long dress.

"No?" he asked, surprised. "And why not, my dear?"

Belle paused, her breath catching in her throat. "I see the way you look at me," she accused, backing away until he'd cornered her against yet another pillar with no way out _. Darius, wherever you are, please come find me._

The man's face paled a shade and he backed away from the petite brunette. "HOW DARE YOU!" he roared. "Your...soul, if you can even call it that, is so unclean, you can't imagine the goodness in others! I should have known no gypsy would want to be saved!" he shouted, shaking.

"I don't think I'm in need of saving!"

"Oh, of course not, your kind never do!" he bellowed, seizing her by the wrist and pulling her close so that his face was only inches from her as he yelled in her face. "I'm warning you, you little whore, I can be a great friend to you, but I can also be a terrible enemy. You'll never set foot in here again!"

"Let go of me right now! Get off of me!" she shouted, struggling against his hold, but he was too strong.

"GUARDS!" the parishioner roared. "GUARDS! ESCORT THIS WITCH OUT THE CATHEDRAL! SEE TO IT SHE NEVER SETS FOOT IN HERE AGAIN! IF SHE DOES, ARREST HER AND SEND HER TO THE BASTILLE!"

"GET OFF OF ME!" Belle shouted. "DARIUS, HELP ME!" she screamed, her pleas terrified and desperate for Darius, or anyone else, really, to come to her aid. Belle reached up her free hand and scratched at his eyes with her nails, hard enough to draw blood, and draw blood she did.

The parishioner let out a shout and twisted her arm hard behind her back and buried his face in her hair. Belle felt the color drain from her face as her face went ashen. There was nothing she could do, and if help didn't arrive soon, what he would do to her, she didn't like to think. He would take her, and she'd have no way out.

"Let go of me! Get your filthy hands off of me!" she shouted.

"ENOUGH! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" the priest's voice shouted as he turned the corner. Belle felt the tension in her facial muscles relax as she closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

 _Darius. Thank God. Any longer and you'd be too late!_ She watched as the priest turned the corner, his brilliant blue eyes narrowed, rigid, and hard. His eyes were his shield and sword, the gathering of clouds for a rainfall she'd never witness. At this moment, Belle knew the parishioner had made a grave mistake.

Monsieur Laurent from earlier was now this handsome priest's enemy, his warmness and kindness evaporating only to be replaced with hatred and a fierce protectiveness for her. She stared, amazed, as the whites of his eyes almost seemed to turn black, he was so upset.

Darius's normally kind eyes had a deadliness, stillness even. His lethal stare felt piercing and painful. Belle watched in awe as she glowered at the parishioner, who knew immediately by the look on Darius's face that he'd made a mistake. Darius's gaze landed on the man's hand, which was still clasping Belle's wrist tightly, not wanting to let go of the woman who had insulted him. His blue eyes blazed and he wrenched the man's arm off her, freeing her. He stepped in front of her, one arm held out in front of her, shielding her from the parishioner.

"Don't touch her!" he snarled, his tone seething with hatred and venom pouring from his every word. "Get out of here! Go, now, before I really lose my temper!"

" Father Darius, that—that's not necessary. We need not cause a scene," Belle started to say, but he wasn't hearing her.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" the priest shouted.

But the man called Laurent refused to back down from his position, his grip upon Belle's wrist tightening. "This woman does not belong in this holy place!"

"Did you not hear me?" Darius roared, his powerful German voice echoing in the silent cathedral. "Leave!"

"This witch needs to be arrested, she's nothing but a temptress, Father!" bellowed the man, his face purple.

Darius seized the man by the scruff of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. "Get out of here right now before I _really_ lose my temper," he snarled furiously through clenched teeth, feeling his voice go dangerously soft and quiet as he recognized the beginnings of a storm brewing deep within his heart. It was coming.

"Father Darius, you can stop now, let him go," Belle pleaded, not wanting to make a scene this late hour of the night, pulling at the sleeve of his habit, dragging him away.

"Get out of here and never darken our doorstep again!" Darius shouted after the parishioner, who'd wasted no time in retreating, still muttering obscenities under his breath. The priest took deep slow breaths to control his temper. He rubbed his temples and sighed. "Milady, are you hurt?" he demanded suddenly. "Did he hurt you?"

Belle shook her head. "No, but thank you for coming, Darius, I—I don't know what would have happened to me had you not shown up when you did. Thank you."

"What happened?" he asked sharply, his voice terse.

"He shouted at a man that I was engaging in a conversation, monsieur. Interrupted it, in fact," she added, almost as an afterthought, furrowing her brows in disgust as she recalled the rude way the farmer had interrupted. "That poor boy. I—I think it was the church's bell ringer? I don't know. Whoever it was, he—he fled up to one of those stairwells over there, I think," she whispered, her voice hoarse as she glanced up at the tower stairwell. "That man scared him off, yelled at him, I don't know what he—"

"Oh no," Darius moaned. "Not again!" he cried, exasperated as he collapsed onto the bottom step of the south bell tower stairwell. "That's the third time in a month this has happened," he groaned, running a hand through his dark hair in anguish. "He was getting better too, starting to come down and join the rest of us in the kitchens when we took our meals, and now something like this will set him back a long way. Damn it. What are we going to do with him?"

"Who is he?" she found herself asking, curious.

"Our resident bell ringer," Darius explained, looking up at her. The expression on his face was pained. "I'm afraid he's not very sociable, so for him to wander down here is a huge improvement on his part. The man is like a younger brother to me, milady. I've known the boy for a few years now. I'd actually been going up to check on him, but I..." Darius paused as he looked at the brunette with something like admiration in his eyes. "You defended him. I heard you."

"Well yes," she admitted, reaching up to scratch at an itch behind her ear. "I can't stand to see people being mistreated. The world is harsh enough as it is without people like that causing trouble for people who are different."

"My dear," he said suddenly, standing and holding out a wrapped cloth. "Would you mind going up to check on him? I—this is for him," he explained, glancing down at the cloth. "His work keeps him so busy; the man wouldn't even stop to eat if I didn't bring him dinner every evening. Usually, when I go, he tends to brush me off, but if _you_ go, well maybe he'll open up to a beautiful woman like you. It can't hurt to try, can it?"

She blushed and smiled shyly. "Of course. It's the least I can do. Anything I can do to help repay your kindness in letting me stay here, I will do it without hesitation. There's no need even to ask. Where can I find him?" Belle asked, wordlessly accepted the wrapped cloth.

"The north bell tower, he'll be hiding up in the rafters, I've no doubt. He won't hurt you," he muttered darkly, rolling his eyes.

"I won't be long," she promised, taking his hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze. "And thank you again, Darius, for intervening when you did. If you hadn't, I don't like to think what would have happened..."

Darius stared at her, the expression on his face amused. "Think nothing of it, milady. You are my charge while you're here with us. I am your protector; it is my job to protect you if you feel threatened in any way. You to come if there's anything you need. I'll be down here when you're done looking on him," he said kindly.

Belle nodded, lifting the skirts of her dress, the cloth containing the food in the other as she headed up the tower steps. She would take it up to his tower, and perhaps get a better look at his face and introduce herself. If she was going to be here from now on, she might as well get to know the other inhabitants of Notre Dame. _This place is home to me now, and the people in it might as well become friends, possibly even...family._

As Belle ascended the north tower stairwell, she could not shake the inevitable feeling from deep within the pit of her stomach that her entire life as she knew it was about to change…


	9. His Voice

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Belle swallowed nervously as she ascended the stairwell. The first thing she noticed was how much chiller the air felt up here the higher up into the cathedral that she went. She paused as she reached the top landing, near the mezzanine, and tried desperately to hide how angry she was, for she did not want that poor man to think that she was furious with him, but rather, at that stupid farmer who had unceremoniously first yelled at the poor boy and then again at her, and would have no doubt done something unforgiveable had Father Darius not shown up in time when he had. She swallowed hard.

She could not seem to hide how fearful she was. Belle hoped this man did not think ill of her, for she was alone in a strange place, and the inventor’s daughter knew full well that she was trespassing up here, but…Belle would be lying to herself if she did not confess to herself that she needed a good friend in her life. Fate, the inventor’s daughter knew, was a concept that could be just as cruel as Death, for it had led her here, to this moment, away from her Papa, and Phillippe, the two people she cared about the most.

However, she supposed it was not altogether entirely unkind, for she had escaped Gaston’s clutches, who was little more than a demon in Belle’s life, her husband constantly holding Belle’s feelings and faults over her head on a daily basis, doing unspeakable things to her that left her scarred, both physically and emotionally. Belle knew better than most that she was something of a broken, battered wreck.

That demon in her life (Gaston), clung onto her neck so tightly, that he squeezed the very air out of her lungs. Even now, though he was not by her side, she could feel her husband’s presence behind her, looming. She let out a breathy little squeak of fear, more of a whimper, really, and refused to look back.

Yet she figured that Fate would get tired of suffering after a while, that its clutches would numb and eventually loosen their grip upon the pale column of her throat. Love, Belle supposed in its own way, was like that, when it got at its strongest point, though eventually, it always weakened and eventually let go.

Even so, Love was a powerful notion, but Fate? Fate was unstoppable. It could release Belle and change her fate if her story so desired, but as Belle climbed the stairwell, the food the priest had given her in one hand, and clutching onto the skirts of her gown in the other, Belle decided that she did not care where she went in the cathedral at this point, how high up this stairwell took her (even if she was afraid of heights), she knew that this decision to go and talk to this poor soul and try to befriend him would set her free. And perhaps too in the process, she would make a new friend in this cathedral’s bell ringer, for something inside the young inventor’s daughter’s heart told Belle that the man was just as lonely as she.

At that moment, Belle had no idea the events in motion that her simple act of kindness was about to unleash, the life that she would touch and change permanently, not to mention her father’s fate as well as her own. Belle let out a tiny muffled groan and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

She had reached the top of the stairwell and could climb no further. This was the moment. This was it.

The defining moment where Belle knew she would have to make a choice, to enter the man’s abode or turn around and go back down the stairwell from whence she had come and get someone else to deliver it. But you won’t, the dark, demonic voice inside her head taunted. _Face the music. You are curious of him. He intrigues you, so it’s only natural that you should want to meet him and learn of his history._

To Belle, the choice to enter and present the man with his food and introduce herself to him or turn around should be easy, but it wasn’t. Belle swallowed nervously past the lump forming in her throat as she tried desperately to hide how fearful she was, knowing that her fear stemmed from a place of insecurity.

She did not know what she would find up here. Belle knew she could control the tremor in her voice to a degree. Belle could consciously force her body movements to become less stilted, and she could make herself smile somewhat, even if it looked pasted onto her features and false. The exertion of climbing all those steps brought on a doubt of breathlessness, like the air around her was devoid of oxygen. Her ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit came to her, just dizziness and a complete lack of breath.

Sensing she needed a moment, she paused at the entrance and set the food down on a nearby small side wooden table. The beads of sweat forming upon Belle’s brow was a law unto itself and in no time at all, Belle found herself sweating a little. The insides of her palms felt moist and they trembled at her sides.

_What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if he does not take kindly to strangers up here in this place?_

Though that line of thinking quickly fell silent as Belle lost her thought process and glanced around her newfound surroundings once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, the only source of which was the moonlight wafting in through open spaces in his tower, as well as a few flickering candles placed strategically throughout on various tables and ledges in an effort to provide a modicum of comfort and warmth to this cold, dark tower that Belle could appreciate, as the candles had a calming effect on her.

They had been without light for so long that the single lit candle was almost too bright to look at. The flame flickered in that vulnerable way fire does, the nascent flame being pushed by a breeze from the newly opened door that Belle had just entered from. By candlelight, Belle’s bones were sharp, yet her skin was mellow like a peach. In the dimness, her eyes turned from their soft brown to almost black, each pupil quite undetectable. She looked so different, almost unrecognizable. By this sallow light she could be anyone in history, but she was. She was Belle Dupont, hopefully former wife to Gaston Dupont, whom she would never go back to if she could help it, and she was a young woman in charge of her own fate.

Just that thought alone was enough to terrify her, and start panic aflame in her heart once more.

The young brunette felt as if her lungs were slowly filling with water, as if there was just less space in them for air. Inflating them felt like pushing up a lead weight against her chest. Belle drew in a breath as if her life depended on it, yet it would not come. If the pigeons in the tower surrounding her roosting in the crevices of the rafters in their nests could make noise, then why on earth could she not take a breath?

Her breathing seemed to stutter in her lungs before Belle exhaled and released a shaking breath, feeling the tension drain from her body as she gingerly pushed open the door at the top of the strange tower’s stairwell, visibly wincing as the damned thing creaked horribly, alerting the strange man to her presence.

A set of wooden stairs led up to a space where curtains came together, seeming to form a kind of living loft. Belle bit her tongue and cautiously took a few steps forward. Belle furrowed her brows in confusion and slight trepidation, not at all liking the silence in this tower, wishing the man would call out to her.

_That he would tell me his name, speak some words of comfort, just so that I know I’m not alone in this strange place_ , Belle thought sadly. She knew tensing against the shaking of her limbs was useless, but she did it anyways, instinctively so, trying to suppress for a few more precious moments what she knew she could not. There was no wind up here and were it not for the chill of the autumnal air as the topmost stair ended at a wooden platform, more of a mezzanine, were it not for the chill that wafted through this unfamiliar, strange place, Belle would not have noticed the air at all, though at the same time, the air felt heavy, but perhaps that was just the tension. She paused, needing a moment to catch her breath. She could control the tremor in her voice to a degree

The man who had bolted up the stairwell had long since fled, though she could swear she could hear faint movement coming from high above her head, shrouded in the shadows, coming from the several dozens of wooden rafter beams that crisscrossed above the inventor’s daughter’s head.

“Oh,” she breathed, craning her neck this way and that, struggling to take in the simplistic but magnificent beauty of the strange tower loft she now found herself in. “This is beautiful up here.”

The man’s voice rang from beyond her line of sight, startling Belle momentarily. “Th—thank you.” The voice seemed to resonate and boom across the north tower loft. Belle closed her eyes, thinking she could listen to it all day. His was a voice to sink in as it wrapped her up. Yet, low and soft, but powerful enough to send pleasant chills throughout all of Belle's body. His voice crashed like a wave through the room until the spacious tower loft was filled with only his magnificent voice.

“What an amazing place,” Belle breathed, exhaling a breath of cool fall air as a breeze wafted through the drafty tower loft. The gentle chimes of what sounded like the clinking of shards of glass reached her eardrums and her attention was momentarily drawn towards the right, towards a small wooden table.

Intrigued, she crept towards the table, which was covered by a thick woolen blanket that acted as more of a protective tarp against the bitter Paris elements of the fall and winter months, and, taking a moment to set the wrapped food in the cloth that the priest downstairs had given her down, she reached out a shaking hand to touch the tarp and peeked underneath it, and immediately smiled at the craftsmanship she saw underneath the blanket. “This is beautiful,” she whispered, lowering her voice, though she had a feeling the man could hear her, for she heard the sound of slightly heavy, lumbering footsteps above her.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, the man’s tenor-like voice soft and quiet, and Belle furrowed her brows in confusion, still wishing the man would gain an ounce of courage and dare to step from the shadows.

_Maybe he’s just shy_ , her mind offered helpfully, and she decided that, given the uncouth way that farmer downstairs, Laurent, had shouted at the man who was now hiding from her, that she would not in any way coax him to remove himself from the shadows, feeling quite confident that he would reveal himself to her when ready. Belle exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose and turned around.

She knitted her brows together in confusion as she could have sworn that she saw a towering shadow dart from behind one wooden rafter beam to another, always careful, the inventor’s daughter noticed, to stay shrouded in the shadows. “Would you mind then if I stayed and talked with you for a moment?” she asked, her voice echoing and ringing throughout the otherwise desolate tower loft, and then it hit her, as her gaze drifted upwards towards the left, and she could ropes that dangled from the ceiling like snakes.

This must be one of the bell towers, Belle thought in awe. She blinked, startled, as the man’s voice responded. “N—No.” The man’s voice was incredibly shy and quiet, and it was a wonder that she could even hear him at all. “I…” his voice trailed off, and he sounded hesitant. “I would like that. No one visits me up…up here. It is…good of you to come, b—but I…I do not even know your name, milady.”

“Belle,” she answered immediately, and she smiled as she heard the man utter an audible gasp of surprise and inhale a sharp, shaking breath. She felt a light pink blush speckle along her cheeks as she glanced down, her hands folded in her lap, and Belle cringed as she noticed she had begun her absentminded fidgeting of her simple gold wedding band. She furrowed her brows into a frown and glowered at it, discreetly slipping the ring off of her left ring finger and carefully slipping it into her satchel. If she were of a clear mind later, then perhaps she would fling Gaston’s ring into the River Seine.

“O—of course it is,” the man answered in response, and Belle frowned at his answer, for his tone sounded bitter. She let out a sigh and craned her neck upwards, still wildly looking around the person to whom the magnificent voice belonged, his soft voice radiating throughout all the corners of the loft.

“Have you a problem with my name, monsieur?” she challenged, feeling the tension in her shoulders return, and she felt them relax as she heard the pained little gasp the man hiding in the shadows gave off.

“N—no!” he stammered, sounding quite flustered as he stumbled, trying to correct his words. “Y—you’ve a b—beautiful name, mi—milady. I—it suits you. You are… _beautiful_ , and I am…like _this_ ,” he breathed, his tone softening, and Belle could almost picture this strange man, whoever he was, wringing his hands together in anguish and then it hit her, the gravity and severity of this isolated man’s situation, if what Lieutenant Frederic de Marten and Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers had said of this man was indeed the truth.

“And you, monsieur?” Belle prodded gently, wishing to steer the conversation away from the meaning of her name and her physical looks. She tired of how the menfolk of Paris, her husband included, lusted after just her physical beauty and attributes, completely ignoring her other qualities, like her sharp wit and mind. “What is your name? I should like to know it, if you will not allow me to see your face, sir.”

For a moment, there was a long, stunned silence, and Belle thought that perhaps for a moment she had overstepped some invisible boundary and had offended the Voice’s sensibilities, as she was apt to call the man hiding in the shadows, until she learned his name. Belle winced, though she knew the man could not see it, and she half rose from her chair, thinking that she had indeed overstepped and had not minded her place, when he answered her. “Q—Quasimodo,” the voice whispered, almost timidly so, and Belle’s heart lurched, and she could feel the bile coating the back of her throat as her mind struggled to process the meaning behind the Voice’s name. Half-formed, or almost made, is what the word meant, Belle knew.

“How could someone bestow upon you a name so cruel, when you seem quite kind, is beyond me,” Belle whispered through clenched teeth, and when she glanced down at her hands in her lap, they were shaking. She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat and swallowed, her mouth feeling dry.

“It is all right,” Quasimodo’s voice responded kindly, though there was no mistaking the bitterness and self-loathing laced throughout his tone, something that Belle could readily identify with, for his voice sounded how she felt on the inside about her decision to accept Gaston’s proposal. _I did it for Papa_.

Another guilty pang pierced her heart at the thought of her father back at Gaston’s cottage, no doubt suffering his wrath. What Gaston would do to Maurice once he discovered Belle was missing or learned of the real truth, Belle did not like to think, and resolved to get her father out of there as soon as possible.

“Aye, Papa, but I will return to you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I—I promise.” Belle coughed once to blink back a fresh wave of oncoming tears and raised her voice to ensure that her new friend heard her next words in order to steer their conversation towards something more pleasant than thoughts of her husband or father. “I think that you have a beautiful name. I—it is…unique. I like it.”

“You would be the first,” he grumbled, and Belle inhaled sharply as the shadow darted from one pillar to the other, and she saw the briefest flashes of his green tunic come into the light, as well as a quick glimpse of a fiery tuft of red hair, but following that, as quickly as he had come, back into the darkness he went. “I have never liked my name, milady, for it is cruel, and yet…” Here, he let out a haggard sigh. “It suits me.” The words escaped almost as a growl, yes, a _growl_ , and Belle felt an involuntary shiver of fear run down her spine as she recognized as his words became clipped and hard, a sure sign of a short temper.

“I don’t think that’s true.” The words tumbled out of Belle’s mouth before she could stop herself, and she closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. There she went again, not bothering to mind her own business. Feeling the heat creep to her cheeks, she blanched and fidgeted with her fingers, immediately trying to correct herself. “Wh—what I meant is that…I believe…whoever named you, monsieur, was wrong. For I do not think that you suit your name. A man’s name does not define who he is, Quasimodo. If you let it define who you are, and more importantly your actions, you will be unsatisfied, monsieur.”

“Please. Call me Quasi. I—I prefer it, a—and it will be…easier for you to say,” he breathed breathlessly, sounding as though he could not quite believe the turn of events the night had taken.

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown as she fingered with the wrapped cloth that lay on the small side table, upon which she had set the food that the priest had given her to bring up to this man. “Are you hungry?” she called out into the rafters, wincing as her voice seemed to reverberate and echo. The sound up here definitely traveled; she could tell that much. “I—I brought you some food. The—the kind priest downstairs, he—he asked me to bring it and come and check on you. That man, that stupid pigheaded boorish farmer should not have yelled at you as he did. He was out of line and should he do it again…”

“D—do not trouble yourself, milady, f—for if you go up against that brute, you would get hurt,” Quasi growled from his place behind a particularly high up rafter beam, though it sounded like his voice was coming from directly behind her. Belle felt her jaw drop open in shock and she whirled around at the closeness of the proximity of his voice to hers, but when she turned around fully, he was not there.

Belle smiled at the slight twinge of protectiveness in the man’s voice. Though she had yet to see his face, she could tell the soul hiding in the rafters was a kind and gentle soul, and had perhaps one of the most magnificent voices she had ever heard, and throughout the duration of the conversation, she had closed her eyes and ignored the man’s slight, nervous stutter, imagining what he looked like in her mind.

She knew the illusive man in question was fond of the color green, based on the brief flashes of the man’s tunic she’d seen, and he had a wild tuft of fiery red ginger hair that was cropped short and seemed to stick out in tufts, based on what she’d seen. Belle knew the man’s voice was unparalleled and matched no other and were it not for the loud clanging of a dinner bell that somehow had wafted its way up into the stairwell of the tower, and echoed off the walls of the tower loft they found themselves in, she would not have even guessed the time. She guiltily flinched as she realized the priest from downstairs, Darius, would no doubt be expecting her to return downstairs and go with him to the kitchens for supper.

Belle shakily rose to her feet and brushed her hands on her skirts. “There’s a…there’s a supper in the kitchens tonight because of the—the thunderstorm,” she explained quietly, the heat in her cheek intensifying. Why on earth was she telling him of this when he, as the cathedral’s sole and only bell ringer, surely knew of this news already? She bit the inside of her cheek and hesitated. “Would you…would you care to accompany me downstairs? I should like to talk with you more, and it would be wonderful to be able to put a name to the face, Quasi,” she whispered, and immediately she relished how the mysterious bell ringer’s nicknamed rolled off her tongue, how fluid it sounded. Belle let out a content little sigh and risked one last glance at the strange tower loft. It left her with a feeling that she could not quite explain.

Almost as if she were _home_.

“N—no. I—I cannot. The—the people downstairs revile me, milady. No. You should not have to look upon my face while you are eating, Belle. I would only put you off your appetite,” he growled, and therein crept the bitterness in his otherwise sweet and shy voice again. “No. It is better for me, a—and for you if I remain up here. I have the food that Darius gave you to bring me. I will…I will be fine.”

Belle felt her facial muscles fall as her smile faltered and she resisted the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. The first soul aside from the captain and lieutenant of the king’s guard and Father Darius who had been kind to her upon her arrival here, and he would not come out and reveal himself to her.

The young inventor’s daughter exhaled a shaking breath through her nose and breathed deep. In and out, a few more times until she felt the tension and anger leave her system completely. “Then…”

Belle’s voice trailed off and she felt her breaths catch in her throat as she caught the tumble of movement behind her and heard a soft, audible thump. She recognized Quasimodo was standing close to her, though still keeping himself shrouded in shadow. Belle allowed her shoulders to slump in defeat as she realized that he was simply not going to come out of the darkness. _For now_ , her conscience advised her. _But perhaps…with regular visits up here to speak with him more, perhaps he will open up to you_.

“May I come up here again soon to visit you, Quasimodo? Perhaps tomorrow morning, we could break our fast together, if you would have me, monsieur. It matters not that you...you do not wish me to see your face. Just talking to you is company enough for me, monsieur. I should like to visit again,” she whispered, biting her lip, and sticking out in a slight pout. She heard him gasp in surprise and she concluded that her request must not be a common one. Clearly, this poor soul was not used to receiving visitors if it all up here by himself. For a moment, Belle found herself wondering if she was one of the first women he had ever talked to, let alone met.

“Wh—why on earth would you want to do that?” he asked incredulously, his voice sounding disbelieving of her words, as though he doubted Belle’s convictions, and Belle had to squint her eyes to see, taking a half step forward to try to better make out the mysterious man’s features from this distance.

Belle smiled at the stunned disbelief in her new friend’s voice, thinking that meeting someone new for her was a divine pleasure. Regardless of how things turned out, she’d always loved the dance that would begin. The most important idea was to be able to get a true feeling for who the other person was over the course of a few weeks and months without ever forming an opinion of them. Belle always let them develop nice and slow. Perhaps this man, this strange bell ringer who for reasons unknown to Belle, would become to her a lifelong friend. She could only hope so, given how kind he had been to her, letting her stay up here for a moment and catch her breath. “Because I wish to know you better. And, Quasi, I can safely say that…” Belle paused as she reached the foot of the stairs, gathering the skirts of her gown in one hand and lifting them slightly to avoid tripping over the hem of her dress, “I can safely say that I am glad that we met this evening, albeit however briefly. Will I…will I see you tomorrow, Quasi?”

Belle bit her bottom lip in anticipation, hard enough to split her lip and cause it to crack and bleed.

“Y—Yes,” he said at last, though his voice still sounded hesitant, like he was uncertain whether or not he could trust. “B—but…why would you come back?” Quasimodo sounded on the verge of a breakdown.

Belle paused at the top of the landing, tossing her dark chocolate locks back over her shoulders and offered him a shy smile and a wave.

“You are just going to have to trust my word, my friend,” Belle called out, the beginnings of a slightly mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Trusts are broken, lies are told. For us to believe in what we seek, we must know what it means to be what we don't want to be. Being sad makes you realize how valuable being happy is. Being weak makes you know what it means to be strong. Being helpless makes you determined to be helpful. Mistakes happen, awful things might happen in one's life. But by looking at the bright sides of things, you might just be able to smile forever in life. If I say I am going to return to you on the morrow, then I will, Quasi. Trust me?” she asked, and without giving the man in the shadows any time to respond, she fled the stairwell of the north bell tower upon hearing the clanging of the dinner bell again, and a man’s voice, it sounded like Darius’s, calling up the staircase in search of Belle, leaving the stunned bell ringer in the shadows to think over her words.


	10. Monster Lines

**CHAPTER NINE  
**

Quasi blinked, hardly daring to believe it, staring up from his perch on one of his favorite rafters, the one that allowed him to look out to his right and see the entire city of Paris from this spot, though right now, his gaze was fixated upon the spot at the top of the mezzanine where the girl had stood only but moments before. Belle.

The girl whose name quite literally meant beautiful. She had not seemed to mind that he had not wished to reveal himself to her, and rightfully so, for Quasimodo could not shake the bitter feelings of resentment that the beautiful brunette with the wide, curious eyes would flee from his tower in terror the minute she looked upon his…unfortunate visage.

He felt himself blink again, as though trying to shake the vivid memory of her serene image that drenched his lonely mind from his thoughts, and stifled a growl in the back of his throat as the unmistakable audible thumping sounds of his three stone gargoyle companions reached his eardrums. Hugo was the first one to break the silence.

"You gonna stay up there all night, kid, or are you gonna come down where we can see you?" Hugo sounded more amused than annoyed, and grinned as the boy leapt down from the rafter beam with a surprising agility and a gentle gracefulness that even after over twenty years of knowing the boy and practically helping to raise him from infancy, still never ceased to amaze the three of them. "There was a _girl_ up here!" he gushed, sounding extremely pleased with this new development.

Quasi repressed the urge to sigh and roll his eyes. He knew what his guardians, those monsters of stone were thinking. That this girl could potentially be the one. A chance for him to start anew and make a friend.

Victor, the tallest and most stoic of the three, save for Laverne in a rare mood, could not resist adding in a quip of his own. "She really was quite the vision of loveliness. Wouldn't you agree, Quasimodo?"

Notre Dame's bell ringer nodded mutely, afraid that if he opened his mouth to speak, he would say something that he did not mean. Not necessarily out of anger, per say, but out of a sheer skittishness. For the last time he had allowed a woman to get close and the hard stone wall around his heart he had allowed to crumble, piece by piece, and by the gods, look what had happened. He had failed Esmeralda. He hadn't saved her life.

Quasimodo could not—would not—invoke upon this new young woman who had quite literally walked into his solitary life up here in the tower—to a similar fate, for if he did, then he might as well fling himself off the turret of the balcony outside and down towards the stones below, wherein Death would greet him like an old friend.

Such thoughts these days were of course, inappropriate. It should have been enough that he had friends in his life. Darius, the priest downstairs, a man not much older than him, early forties, if the bell ringer remembered correctly, and of course, Alice and Jeanne, the pair of trouble-making nuns, who, conveniently enough, were distantly related cousins.

And then there was Phoebus and his young lieutenant, Frederic. He had thought that, given everything that had happened with La Esmeralda but a few months ago, and Phoebus's attractions towards the Romani dancer, that things would become awkward between the two of them on the rare occasions that Phoebus happened to venture up into the tower whenever he could sneak away from Master Frollo's side, usually able to come visit the younger boy before the Primes, though these days, at least over the past few weeks, Master Frollo's and Phoebus's visits were less and less frequent. Master had claimed that this was in part because King Louis the Prudent was keeping a closer eye upon the Judge following the death of the gypsy girl and had insisted upon no more burnings unless the situation was warranted.

A fact which troubled Quasimodo greatly, but secretly, the redheaded bell ringer felt relieved, and even now as he allowed his mind to wander and think of this unpleasant topic, he could feel himself exhale a sharp, shaking breath as he thought of say, this brunette beauty, this Belle, if she were to ever invoke Master Frollo's wrath and provoke the man's temper. Then she would not be sentenced to death, his conscience offered, however unhelpfully.

Quasi scowled and wrung his hands together painfully as he clambered down off the rafter ledge to pick up the wrapped cloth that the girl had brought. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, though he had a feeling he could guess what Darius had been about to bring him. A loaf of bread, a rind of Brie cheese, some grapes, a wineskin of water. The usual, as was the same every night most days. Notre Dame's sole bell ringer was jolted out of his thoughts of the young refugee within the stone walls as Laverne's slightly ancient, warbling, matronly tone reached his eardrums. She sounded much more solemn than Hugo.

"The girl. Belle, I think she said her name was, yes?" Laverne looked towards the twenty-one-year-old for confirmation, and when the redheaded boy nodded, the stone statue broke into a wide grin and reached up a thin stony arm to ruffle his tuft of wild ginger hair and clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. "You need a trim, boy, and soon, especially if this girl is going to become a regular visitor up here, appearances are important, Quasimodo," she scolded.

Quasi scoffed and at that, he _did_ roll his eyes. The idea of even entertaining the young woman to see his face was laughable and ludicrous, and that was absolutely something that he could not allow. It was better for her this way. "I—no," he growled, brushing away the gargoyle's concerns over the state of his hair, which, though cropped quite short to keep it out of the way, tended to stuck up in a couple of different directions, his wild red hair having a mind of its own.

Laverne scolded, folding her thin arms across his chest, and Quasimodo sometimes imagined if the statue would have had feet, this would be about the time where she would have started restlessly tapping her foot in annoyance at him. But she could not do that, so she had to settle for shooting the boy a quite literal stony expression and a flexing of her wings.

"There is still a chance for you, kid. You always speak to us of wanting something else in your life, a better life up here, and you will never find it if you stay trapped up here. The poor dear looked awful lonely. If the child is going to be claiming sanctuary here for who knows how long, you might as well take this opportunity to get to know her better. I know you couldn't see it since you weren't looking," she added, her frown deepening as she noticed the young bell ringer open his mouth to hotly retort, "but I was. Victor was. Hugo was, and we could see it plain as the noses on our faces, that this girl, this Belle, is a lonely young woman who could very much use a friend in these…troubling times."

Quasi felt speechless and at a complete loss for words. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and felt his face rapidly drain of color as he swiveled his head to regard his three stone companions with an abject look of horror on his slightly misshapen face, though if you were to look close enough, the boy, whenever he smiled, the shadow of a handsome face would flash across his features, and then it would be gone.

Laverne thought it sad and something of a tragedy, though she would never confess it to the boy, for she had a feeling he already knew this, that he should be cursed with the unfortunate contusion just above his left brow bone, because were it not for that, then he would have been quite handsome, though Laverne firmly believed in her mind that the boy was, and desperately wished every day for an ordinary miracle, that he could see it for himself, and even better, that someone else, a _girl_ , could see that, too.

_Maybe the one who visited with him earlier will be the one_ , she thought wildly, and quickly shook her mind to clear it as she realized the boy had said something, and she turned slightly to regard Quasimodo with a furtive guilty look.

Hugo scowled and hopped over, helping himself to a handful of the grapes off the cloth, ignoring the dark looks the bell ringer and Victor shot him. "Listen, kid," he mumbled through a mouthful of the red grapes that it was a miracle that fat stone swine could even speak, "This girl, Laverne is right. Can't believe I'm sayin' that, never thought I would," he grumbled, to which the female gargoyle responded by balling her stone hand into a fist and bringing it down upon his head. Hugo frowned and stuck his tongue out at Laverne, though he chose to focus his attention on Quasimodo, which in it of itself was something of a miracle, considering the tree gargoyles were constantly fighting among themselves.

"Why would she come up here?" Quasi burst out, wringing his gloved hands together painfully as he ventured out onto the balcony. He felt lightheaded and dizzy as visions of the brunette beauty refused to part from his thoughts.

Though he'd been too high up to make out too many details of her face, what he had been able to see of her, he liked.

"I—I don't get many visitors. Perhaps Darius just sent her up here to be nice," he growled angrily, and thus began the dark vortex of the bitterness that stemmed from his heart that constantly lurked in the back of his mind, tormenting him.

Laverne frowned, still continuing to keep her arms folded across her chest, and she batted a wing irritably at a pigeon that had landed on one of her horns. "You would. If you'd let people in. Like you let this girl in today. This Belle."

Victor, sensing Laverne's frustrations, hopped forward and in between the gap of space between the cathedral's bell ringer and his fellow stone companion, unable to resist further adding his input. "That Romani woman is not the only woman in the world, Quasimodo," Victor protested. "There's someone out there for you. You just have not found her yet, though I would say your chances of developing a relationship and maybe even a courtship with this Belle girl—"

But the bell ringer immediately shot up a hand to interrupt the stone statue. "No, Vic," Quasi growled angrily. "I—I don't think it will," he mumbled, lowering his head in shame, and allowing that one stubborn coarse lock of fiery red hair to fall into his good eye. A habit of his, the gargoyles had come to learn over the years of knowing the boy and his quirks and mannerisms, that he frequently found himself doing, perhaps albeit subconsciously, whenever he did not wish to see, which, these days, thanks to the City of Lovers being on fire, was also growing in frequency. "For what woman could ever learn to love… _this_ …" he growled, gesturing towards himself, tugging on a lock of his red hair and pointing viciously towards his contusion and scowled, folding his arms across his chest, shrinking into his tunic as much as he could for warmth from the bitter chill of the autumnal breeze that wafted out onto the north bell tower's balcony loft.

Laverne gave a shrug of her shoulders and reached up and patted the young man on the hand. "It will happen. I think if you just let us help you, kid. You can still have your shot at a normal life. It's what you've always wanted, Quasi."

Quasi stared, blinking, unsure if he'd heard his guardian correctly. "What do you mean? Who's 'us?' You three?"

Hugo rolled his eyes and chomped on a mouthful of the bread. Quasi shot him a dark look, which the swine ignored.

"The girl." He emphasized it through another bite of food. "I saw the way that maiden was lookin' at you, kid. Well, your shadow, I guess I should say," Hugo corrected quickly, tapping his fat chin in thought. "She was all over ya, boy!"

"She _is_ a cute girl, Quasimodo, is she not?" Laverne pressed slyly, the hint of a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her stone mouth as she noticed the light pink blush speckling along the bell ringer's cheeks, noticing the boy's sudden skittish and nervous demeanor the longer their topic of conversation lingered upon the church's new refugee.

Quasi frowned, still actively averting his friends' gazes, though all three of them collectively staring at him like this made it feel as though a hole was being branded with a hot, scalding iron at the base of his skull. "She…she is," he admitted, not at all ashamed to admit to them the truth. "But I do not understand why you think she would like me."

Now it was Laverne's turn to roll her eyes. She huffed in frustration and gave a hop, the closest thing she could come to stomping a foot in frustration the way humans tended to. "Oh, Quasi, Quasi, Quasi…" she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her clawed thumb and forefinger, as though she were fighting off the onset of a splitting headache. "There is so much more to a person than just your looks. I would have _thought_ your friendship with Esmeralda would have taught you that much if nothing else. I cannot bear to see you in this constant state of distress. Letting Esmeralda go because she's dead is the smartest thing you could do for yourself. Making a new connection in your life seems like an easier out than this torture you're putting yourself through, because you won't let her go! She's killing you because you're letting her!" she snapped, taking note of how the young boy flinched at the mention of the Romani dancer's name, though he made no comment, for which Laverne was grateful, as she still wasn't finished with her piece.

She noticed Hugo open his mouth to speak and swatted him on the arm. " _I_ have the floor right now, not you, you fat miserable swine!" Laverne bellowed, and scowling, turned back towards Quasimodo. "Belle is seemingly going to be with us for a good long while and…" Her voice trailed off as her stone sculptured brows knitted together in confusion. She had been on the lower level of the mezzanine at the time, and had gotten a much better up-close look of the girl than their boy had, or even Victor and Hugo, for that matter, and Laverne could have sworn she'd seen the girl nervously fidgeting with a wedding ring upon her left finger prior to removing it and discreetly slipping it into the satchel she'd worn about her waist, so that could only mean to the stone gargoyle one of two things for her.

That she had run away from home, perhaps from her husband, or her husband was lost to one of these wretched wars and was thereby now a widow and could use the comfort and solace. _Maybe our boy can provide that for her,_ she wondered, her beady eyes widening in shock, and Laverne quickly shook her head to clear it and blinked once, twice.

Quasi turned his head slightly, having noticed his friend's sudden silence and her failure to finish her sentence.

" _And_?" he pressed, sighing in frustration and fatigue. "What, pray tell, Laverne, does any of this have to do with me?"

"Everything," Victor answered, cutting in and interrupting Laverne before the female gargoyle could so much as open her mouth to speak. "Belle expressed an interest in seeing you again on the morrow, did she not? Over breakfast, yes?"

Quasi scowled, pursing his lips in a thin, rigid line. While the thought of seeing her again and conversing with the young woman who was seemingly unfailingly kind and generous, perhaps to a fault, exhilarated him, it also terrified him.

For what if the time would come when the girl wished to know what he looked like, and was not content with leaving him to hide under the cover of darkness that his bell towers could adequately provide? What would happen then?

The moment she laid eyes upon his visage; would the girl flee in terror? Or would she, by some miracle of God, not care? Just the ambiguity of not knowing what the girl's response to his outward monstrous appearance would be was enough to send the distraught young man into a swift, agitated state, more of a panic attack as his breaths became quick.

Hugo scowled and tugged on the sleeve of Quasi's long-sleeved linen undershirt, which he wore underneath his brown and green tunics in the fall and winter months for added warmth, in a rare display of impatience, which was something of a rarity for the stone swine. "Listen to us, kid. We wanna see you happy, Quasi. You're gonna have to see this Belle again whether you like it or not, 'cause with the girl claiming sanctuary here, well, even this big old place has its limitations. You're bound to run into each other sooner or later. Now's your shot to make a new connection, kid."

Laverne, sensing they had said all that they could to their young charge, knew the boy needed a moment alone, and motioned with a wave of her arm for her other two companions to follow her, though not before she risked one last glance over her shoulder and offered the young redheaded bell ringer a kind smile. The boy was selfless, kind, in her own eyes handsome enough, and she hoped that one day, some fair maiden would fall for the kid and look beyond his unfortunate deformities.

For Quasi to never know the simple joys of what it meant to be loved, cared for, broke her heart. Or would have, had she had one.

" _Trust me_ ," she echoed Belle's words from earlier, and the ancient protector of the church knew that the moment the words had left her mouth, that they had hit their mark and registered with him. "Is that not what Belle said to you earlier? To trust her? I think you should listen to the child, Quasi. She means well, and I think she means you no harm by coming to talk with you. You're going to have to do that, son. Take a chance on her. See where it goes. You might surprise yourself. The Lord knows you've surprised us over the years," she added happily. With that, Laverne, Victor, and Hugo hobbled back inside towards the warmth of the north bell tower's loft, leaving Quasimodo alone to ponder their words of advice and sage wisdom. Esmeralda was gone, and with her, so was his heart.

He'd sworn the day she died, he'd never let another woman get close, and not the way she had with him. But the girl…in spite of his promise, the bell ringer found his mind wandering to earlier this evening, when he'd gotten his first good look at her features. Quasi flinched and drew in a breath that pained his lungs as he recalled his first vision of her, the moment he finally, truly saw her when she'd stepped out from the shadows and into the light. How her beauty had bewitched him, how her delighted laugh at his carvings had filled his eardrums. She had laughed at his carvings, found them delightful.

And what had he done? Hidden in the shadows high above in the rafters like a _coward_ , too afraid to show his face, because of his monstrous form. _A monster_ , he thought bitterly. _That's all I'll ever be_. He was destined to be alone. Nothing would ever change that. His guardians encouraging him to befriend her and apologize for his rash behavior was ridiculous. But Laverne had seen something earlier that he couldn't.

She'd persisted, but he shrugged that suggestion off. He had stopped trying to change peoples' perceptions of him after the attempted siege on the cathedral. An agonizing few months suffering, people pointing at him behind his back, he knew people would never change their attitudes about him, as much as he hoped he would. Pained, he rested his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the balcony's railing as he stared up at the stars, wondering what it would be like to have a woman in your life who truly loved you like Esmeralda had loved Phoebus, though Phoebus had married Fleur de Lys in the end, and had disregarded Esmeralda's feelings.

To have a wife at all, really, would be nothing short of a miracle for him… He doubted he could work up the nerve to face the girl again, not after the cowardly way he'd behaved towards her. She wouldn't want to see him again, not after that. He deserved to be alone forever if he could not even bear to show his face. Quasi shuddered, thinking what a disaster it had been. The beautiful brunette with a wonderful laugh, whose name meant beauty.

Belle deserved better than him.


	11. With Me...Or Against Me...

**CHAPTER TEN**

Belle was hardly aware she'd reached the bottom step of the north tower stairwell until she met the handsome priest's gaze from earlier and blushed under the scrutiny of the man's piercing blue eyes. "I take it then my suggestion worked?" The priest chuckled as he offered Belle his arm to escort her on the walk towards the kitchens for the prepared supper.

"You could say that," mumbled the inventor's daughter, risking one last glance over her shoulder towards the stairwell, feeling a guilty pang pierce at her heart at the thought of her new friend eating alone with no one for company. She furrowed her brows into a frown.

If what Captain de Chateaupers and his lieutenant had told her on the trek over here, the man had spent his entire life in the solitude of both of those towers, having only left them once to attend a festival. When she had prompted the men for more details, both had gotten incredibly guilty, furtive looks on their faces and had immediately steered the conversation towards more pleasant topics in a vain effort to avoid the unpleasant topic.

Which immediately raised her hackles in suspicion. Belle could not quite shake the feeling there was more to this strange bell ringer than they were letting on, and this bothered her, though something deep within the confines of her heart, that corded muscle within her chest, told the inventor's daughter that she would get very little information from the priest currently escorting her to the kitchens (or anyone else in Notre Dame de Paris's walls, for that matter), and the only way she would get answers to the dozens of burning questions that lingered on the tip of her tongue, just begging to be asked, was to ask the man himself directly.

 _Perhaps tomorrow over breakfast he might open up to me and tell me more about himself_ , she pondered, and it was only when the light sound of the priest coughing to clear his throat and jolted Belle out of her tired, swirling many thoughts of Notre Dame's mysterious illusive bell ringer and back to Darius.

"Pardon me, monsieur," she squeaked, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. "Forgive me. My mind…wandered."

Darius shot her a quizzical look and shook his head, though she could tell the priest was amused. "It's no trouble. I take it then your visit up there went well?" he asked, pausing just outside a set of small double doors, the wood aged, cracked and splintered with the thief known as time, and regarding the young brunette with a curious look. "It did?"

Belle nodded, not sure what else to say. "Your bell ringer, Quasimodo, he seems…quite kind," she breathed, lowering her voice, attempting to be cautious in case the walls and doors of this place had ears as well as eyes. "He was…very sweet, and I must admit, it is refreshing to me, having come from…people in my life who are not," she confessed, turning away so that Father Darius would not see the pained look in her dark brown eyes. She huffed in frustration.

Father Darius frowned at hearing the unspoken pain laced throughout the young woman's voice, and he wondered if there would be an appropriate time to ask her about such matters. Perhaps after supper. He paused, thinking of how best to phrase what was on his mind. "Yes, he is," he added, the beginnings of a wry little smile forming on his mouth. "Our bell ringer is a timid man, but he is quite kind. Though shy to a fault, as I am sure you found out by now," he added.

Belle nodded mutely. "Has he lived up in that tower his whole life?" she asked, furrowing her brows into a frown.

"I'm afraid so, darling," Darius sighed, glancing away from Belle. "He has not had much interaction in his life, I am ashamed to say, save for those of us here in the cathedral and his… _father_ ," he confessed, noticing Belle's eyes widen in shock at the mention of the boy having anything that in her mind even resembled family, though Darius would be the first to admit he wouldn't necessarily call that relationship a loving one, or even healthy, though the priest believed that, in the man's own way, the judge truly did care for his adopted son, however misguided the path he was on might be. He wondered briefly how much of Quasimodo's past and his relationship to Judge Frollo he could divulge, and then decided against it, firmly believing that it was not his business to tell, and should she wish to learn more, she'd have to ask Quasi.

Still, something about the insatiable look of curiosity in the young woman's doe-like darkening eyes was infectious, and before Darius could stop himself, he found himself continuing, despite the fact that they had reached the kitchens.

"He has not had an easy life here, mademoiselle, I can tell you that much. The boy has had a very trying life, more difficult than most given his…looks," he finished lamely, and he could rapidly feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the girl's eyes widened and grew round at the revelation that the bell ringer in the tower was not exactly the most pleasant of men in terms of his looks to gaze upon, and he immediately turned away. "My—my apologies, milady, I thought you knew. I thought that perhaps he had revealed himself to you up there, and…"

Cursing under his breath, the priest turned away and shook his head in self-disgust. When he turned back towards Belle, the young woman was surprised to see a growing look of anger and a fierce protectiveness in the man's icy blue eyes and a stone cold glacier hardened stare that had not been there before. "There is more to that boy than his looks, milady. You would do well to remember that."

"I—of course," Belle stammered, blinking once or twice at the priest in shock. She bit the inside of her cheek. "I believe it wise not to judge a person based on how they look, but on their actions. Their words, how they think."

The priest nodded in agreement, shooting the young brunette a quick glance of approval. "I agree. Forgive my outburst, I did not mean to speak in such harsh terms, mademoiselle. We have had…incidents, shall we say, of young people, mostly young boys," he spat bitterly and shot a dark glance down the hallway, as though expecting one of them to materialize out of thin air like a phantom, "venturing up to the man's tower to try to catch a glimpse of the 'demon.'"

Belle's heart practically shattered into a million fragment's at Father Darius's words and felt her brows knit together in confusion. She folded her arms across her chest. "Those boys should be stopped. Are there not cathedral guards?" she asked curiously. "Could they perhaps not be stationed inside, one at each entrance of the man's towers to prevent unwanted visits?" she asked, and she could tell by the way the priest's already white face paled in shock that he had not considered that as a viable option to prevent the taunts and tormenting. "They would not need weapons, Father, when dealing with young boys. It could very well solve that problem. Perhaps I could mention it to Captain Phoebus in passing the next time he visits?" she questioned, biting her lip and sticking it out in a slight pout as she watched Darius's reaction.

"That could work," Father Darius breathed, reaching up a hand to pick at a loose thread of his brown habit that seemed a little too big for him on his lean frame, though the young man made it work. "I shall mention it to the captain the next time he stops by. He usually manages to pay the bell ringer a visit during the Primes when he's not with the judge," he admitted, and let out a sigh, finally turning towards the doors of the kitchen. "I think, milady, that if you wish to learn more about the man, then the only way for you to get the answers that you seek is to ask Quasi yourself. He could use the social interaction and it would benefit him greatly if he were to make another friend in this cathedral beside me."

Belle blinked, startled. "Me?"

Darius smiled at her, his eyes gentle and hopeful. "Yes, you. Why not you? I think that having another friend in his life could be just what he needs to break him out of this vicious cycle of self-loathing. He's been alone in this world for far too long. In spite of recent events over the last few years, I do believe you could do the man a great service by giving him a second chance and trying to befriend him. His work is solitary and lonely in his tower. He stays incredibly busy, but in part, I think he does it to avoid the loneliness and not to think about past memories so much. In fact, he's not wandered outside this cathedral much, save for the once. He's lived here since he was an infant. He's almost twenty-two in a few more months."

Belle drew in a sharp breath and held it. She'd been right in her guess as to the man's age, he was only a year older than her if he were twenty-one. Her name day was at the end of this month, and she'd hoped this year she'd be able to celebrate it with her papa, though Gaston's daily abuse had made thinking about anything other than surviving her marriage difficult.

 _He must be so lonely here. Alone in those towers with no one to share in a conversation with. Nothing up there but bells and statues of stone_ , she thought, troubled. She frowned and rested her head in her hands. She felt incredibly guilty about how she had just left him up there to fend for himself.

She should have insisted that he join her for dinner. "And you think that that person…could be _me_?" Belle whispered, hardly daring to believe the man's words.

"I do." Darius nodded and shot her a kind smile. "I know that you must be frightened. Lost. Confused. You are in a place that is unfamiliar to you, and probably not sure of what to think, but…perhaps there's someone in here who can help," he answered, his blue eyes twinkling, gesturing to the cathedral's empty space around him before getting him and leaving her to attend to his other duties for the eve. "Things have a way of working out, milady. Don't worry."

She sighed, defeated. _I am in a church, after all_ , she mused, looking around. _Perhaps I should pray to Him. Is it even worth it to pray to a God who's never been there for me? If there is a God and He exists, why then would He allow me to live with a monster like Gaston for a husband? What a joke. But still, I have to try. I have to_. Belle bowed her head and prayed, whispering an inaudible prayer under her breath, if anyone was there. _God...please, I don't know if I have strength enough to go back for Papa, though I know that I must. I know it was wrong to run away from my husband, but just the thought of spending another night in that man's company would make me want to kill myself. I can't_.

Though as she finished her dire prayer, Belle's mind wandered yet again to thoughts of her conversation with the bell ringer. With Quasimodo. How she thought it so strange, almost frightening even, that she could make a connection so quickly, and without so much as seeing his face, content to converse with the Voice in the shadows until he trusted her enough to want to reveal herself, for she could not and nor would she force him to.

Not until he was ready, of his own volition. With this knowledge in mind, she began to feel better, and as the priest gingerly pushed open the door towards the kitchens, she felt a small smile form on her lips as she thought of Darius's words. She would if God would grant her the courage, check up on the bell ringer again soon and share a meal with him on the morrow, as she had promised, and Belle considered herself a woman of her word. She did not bother to stop the small smile on her face.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought, as she joined the priest for a light supper of soup and bread with the other monks and lay brothers and nuns, _it won't be so lonely here, after all._

So engrossed was Belle, already lost in the wanderings of her own mind as Darius shut the kitchen door behind the pair of them as they entered into the kitchens, that she did not notice a short, stout figure lurking behind a pillar, careful to keep to the shadows.

LeFou was watching her…

* * *

There was a silence to Maurice's soul; he was the fall leaves under frost. He felt the chill in his blood that had nothing to do with the cold autumnal air as he stood outside of Gaston's home, his arms folded across his chest. He did not want to imagine the fate that lay in store for him when Gaston returned home and found the inside of his cottage trashed.

The result, the inventor would tell the decorated war lord and hunter, of a band of thieves that had taken Belle from him, and Maurice, in his frail and weakened state, could remember nothing. The coldness of his blood brought the synapses of his brain to a standstill. Part of it was a pain, yet one that he could endure, one he could sleep through night after night without the medicines of false hope. This was his winter, to live in a world without his Belle. Gods, what had he done to her? He _never_ should have agreed to Gaston's proposal. It was because of him he would most likely never see his little girl again. His emptiness, hollowness at the loss of his beloved wife's disappearance, and now his daughter was always there. He just considered himself decent at hiding it, masking it with normal human emotions.

No one ever asked him why he was smiling. It hid everywhere, this emptiness. There was no getting away from it. His nightmares as he tossed fitfully in the carriage seemed to help fill it, with what he did not care to elaborate. But he needed it. Maurice needed something to go wrong, something to be imperfect. He thought, sadly, that he felt safer when something was wrong. He needed it to distract himself, not from everything else, but simply, from himself.

"Don't worry, Gaston," he muttered darkly under his breath, clutching the thick woolen blanket Belle had given him tighter around himself for warmth. "Don't you worry, monster, there is another one sleeping right next to you. It is me."

The inventor and painter took a moment to reflect on his beautiful wife, his Esme, wondering if he would be fortunate enough to look upon her again. She had been the best, the finest, the one he could rely on, no matter what. She was the one who understood the true value of sunshine, the worth of a hug and a simple kind word. Esme walked so tall even when the other villagers had ridiculed and mocked her, there was nobody who ever did it better.

Then, she was gone, one day, taken from him. She never gave herself up, and he was glad that she did not. Maurice thought that would have felt more like abandonment, but that left him with only one conclusion.

"My love," he whispered, speaking to Esme as he always did. "They stole your life to advance their own and stood on your bones as if they were gold, as if you meant them to have them. Once they took you from me, you were not there anymore, not in the still heart or closed eyes. Yet, I find you every day, every moment I open my heart to feel. You are in what you loved—sunshine and kindness. You always were love and you still are. So though, your face haunts me in my nightmares, love, always stay near me. Stay in the warm rays every day that I live in, and then it is that I will come to you, bringing you my love. All that I have is yours, Esme, and it always will be. Always." Maurice's voice cracked and wavered slightly as he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat and fought back his welling tears that threatened to spill over.

If Esme were here, she would know what to do to save their daughter.

"I recall how you walked over the earth, like the soles of your feet kissed it so lightly. You were my heaven, my haven, the only one who could see past my flaws to what dwelt inside. Wherever you were was home to me, your voice the only salve that could erase the hurt. Though you are gone, beloved, I seek you still and I will persevere, as always. I guess that means you haunt me, but only in ways, I need to breathe, only in ways I need to keep this heart of mine beating. I do it for our daughter, Esme. She is beautiful, just like you were. Are," he corrected himself quickly, still holding onto that last shred of hope that his wife was still alive, waiting for him somewhere out there. "I have beautiful days, I love and I feel the warmth of the sun. To say, "I wish you were here," sounds like something one of Belle's favorite poets would have written, but that is all I wish for. To have you at my side again, and Belle home safely is a dream."

Maurice was met with silence. Nevertheless, he continued talking. If he ceased talking to his wife, then his thoughts would linger on what he did to Belle, and he could not cope with that right now. By God, he would find a way to get her out, even if it meant his life.

"There are days I fill with noise and chaos to keep your ghost at bay," he said, feeling a light chuckle escape his lips despite the immense heartache he was feeling. "There are days I call to you, fearful to lose you all over again. Every time my heart cries out, your spirit comes to me, and my emotions cannot handle it. To feel your presence, and only see an empty room, to smell the lavender fragrance of your perfume and your hair is torture. To reach out my hand and feel only the cold air, shatters my heart all over again. Yet stay, please love, stay. I retreat to the chaos and the noise of my inventions because it is a distraction for me, because my love is so strong for you that it starts to break me in ways that are difficult to mend, and tonight, the last fragment of my broken heart was shattered, beloved. Belle is…" he paused, not sure, if he had the strength within him to continue. "Our Belle is gone, and it's entirely my fault. I never should have let her marry that _fiend_ ," he growled darkly. "But never fear, beloved, for I am going to find a way for our daughter to be saved. So here I stand between chaos and love, both of them hurting, both of them helping me. The difference is I could be happy with just yours and Belle's love for me, as a man, as a husband, and as a father, and your love, whole and well as it is, would be enough for me, and yet the chaos alone by itself would kill me. One day I will find the right road, the one that leads to your home, wherever that may be for you, and pray the door is open, and that you will let me in, that you will accept me back into your life, love."

Maurice had known when he was a young man that to love deeply meant to risk great pain. He had shied away from women for this very reason, until he met her. His Esme. Then he was lost. No longer the master of his own fate, he was now a mere puppet, reduced to practically sand beneath her fingertips as they courted, eventually married, and were blessed with their daughter, Belle. Appropriately named, for as Belle grew, she grew into her beauty, and became the spitting image of her mother. Different shade of hair, but other than that, they were practically identical in looks.

When Esme had been forcefully taken from him, their little town had been under siege at the time, the women rounded up and arrested for sorcery and witchcraft thanks to allegations of someone practicing magic in the villages nearby.

That was so many years ago, Esme had been only twenty-five, and now all he had left of his wife was his memories, and of course, their daughter. Maurice felt his eyes water and he could not stop himself. His tears were not quiet and controlled; they fell fast as he sobbed to draw breath. In a fit of agitation, he kicked the front of the cottage wall, cursing himself for his own stupidity. He should have never said yes when Gaston had come to him asking for his blessing. His lungs heaved and he knew there was no cure for his heart. He had never looked at another or wanted another, but his Esme, and now their only child was lost, and he would perhaps never see his daughter again.

His great love had departed, and he must find a way forwards. For Belle's sake. He could see his wife in Belle every time he looked into his daughter's eyes and this reflection brought Maurice both comfort and pain. She was alive but gone. He stayed with his head bowed until his face had been dried by the wind coming in from the carriage's windows and his composure slightly regained. It was his pain and he would keep it; it was the intensity of this heartache that proved the strength of their bond and he could not bear to feel any less than that. If he didn't, then just kill him now.

As he stood shakily to his feet, the nausea swirled unrestrained in his empty stomach. His head swam with half-formed regrets. His heart felt as if his blood had run cold and become tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat. His melancholy mood hung over him like a black thundercloud, raining his personal sorrow down on him whenever he went. His heartache was like a wolf eating at his chest, tearing its way to his trembling heart. It threatened to devour him, to eat him whole and leave nothing but scraps. However, for Belle's sake, he would rebuild himself and fight off the wolf, but right now, he did not know how.

Therefore, he did his best to ignore it. Maurice found his feet aimlessly shuffling towards the village tavern, ignoring the stunned look of the other patrons sitting at the bar with tankards of beer in their hands, untouched food on their plates. Maurice never came into the tavern, if at all, for a drink. He merely grunted n response as he found a table in a corner of the establishment and thought it sufficient. The bartender, a kind enough fellow by the name of Pierre, came over, asking him what he would like. "Hello, Pierre. The strongest ale you have, my friend," he muttered darkly in response.

The bartender eyed him with a cautious eye as he rolled up his sleeves, wiping a tankard with a dishrag. "Are you sure you're all right, Maurice? It is just…we don't see you in here that much, is all? What's the ah…the occasion for your visit tonight?"

Maurice shot Pierre a dark look. "Been meaning to fix that. Bring me an ale, please, Pierre. I've had one hell of a night, you could say, not to mention the alcohol is the only thing that will stave off the pain in my shoulder," he hissed angrily, glancing tiredly at his bandaged shoulder from where he had injured it, scraping it against a particularly rough splinter in his efforts to overturn their kitchen table. "My daughter is gone," he said at least, defeated.

"Gone?" said a new voice, a man's, booming and authoritative. Maurice stifled a groan and closed his eyes wearily. _Gaston_. The last man he wanted to deal with right now. "What do you mean _gone_?" Gaston regarded the inventor with an incredulous, angry look. In his eyes, he held a hateful disdain for the old inventor and painter. But it was so much more than that. There was a tenseness he wasn't even trying to mask.

Maurice chose not to answer; instead, his hands gripped the tankard in his hands, his eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressed sense of a beginning headache. He tilted his head towards the ceiling as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighed as he felt his vision began to blur at the edges, his mouth sore from the amount of alcohol that he poured down his throat. Each drink offered seemed like a better and better idea, and before Maurice knew it, he was on his second pint. Gaston could only watch, dumbfounded, as Maurice drank.

At last, he finally decided to answer. "Belle has been…taken from me," he confessed darkly, not wanting to divulge the details of how monstrous the beast was. But then again…Gaston was the most seasoned hunter and a renowned captain in their village. Everybody worshiped and looked up to the man for his unrivaled skills with a bow and arrow and a rifle. As Maurice glanced across the table at Gaston sitting opposite him on the other side of the table, his eyes flashed with indignance and anger, much like lightning on a pitch-black night. He almost did not recognize his daughter's husband.

"By whom? Who would dare take my wife and your daughter from here?" demanded Gaston irately, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the handle of his own tankard, his grip ironclad and hard enough to break it. "Tell me!"

Maurice stared at the captain across the way, regarding him in silence for a moment. Gaston Dupont was handsome enough, he supposed. His raven black hair was thick and lustrous, currently tied up in a neat low ponytail to keep out of the way. His face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. His dark brows were currently sloped downwards in a serious expression. His usually playful smile had drawn into a hard line across his face. His strong hands, slightly rough from hunting and working around the village, continued to grip his tankard tightly in anger.

There was only one word to describe the decorated war hero. His lips were pale, thin, and his nose slender and rounded. A prominent jaw curved gracefully around, and the strength of his neck showed in the twining cords of muscle that shaped his entire body; strong arms, bold thighs and calves, a firm chest and abdomen. He was an Adonis among the other men in the village, who each paled in comparison to him.

All it took was one look from Gaston and both women and men swooned at the sight of him no matter their sexual preferences and one word passed from his lips had even the straightest of men flushing shades of red that no one thought possible. Adonis. That was Gaston.

"Maurice," growled Gaston angrily, his knuckles white as his hand gripped onto his tankard. "Tell me. Now. You're either with me…or you're against me. What became of Belle, old man?" he snarled.

"I…I don't know. They—they came while I was marketplace. The—inside of the house is in ruins, no sign of my daughter. I—it's like they were a phantom, they took her and left without so much as a trace," admitted Maurice, clenching his jaw in anger, and hoping that his eyes did not betray him and give away the secret. That Belle had fled of her own volition, away from Gaston and his boorish ways. "But we'll find her." Maurice swallowed nervously and bit the inside of his cheek, and felt his eyes widen in shock as Gaston nodded his agreement and clapped the frail inventor on the back.

"That we will, Maurice, old chap," he said, and Maurice did not know if he should be concerned or not that Gaston did not sound entirely too concerned that his wife was missing and had been 'forcibly removed from their little home.'

Gaston fixed the inventor and painter with a wry little smirk, and whispered something into the shell of LeFou's ear, who nodded and quickly scampered off, which earned a frown from Maurice. He'd never particularly liked or trusted that little weasel, though Maurice could not very well protest whatever Gaston was planning, lest it give him away.

"We'll find Belle, Maurice," Gaston reassured him, and smiled that ambivalent little smile that sent a tremor of fear down the old man's spine before throwing his head back and draining the last of his tankard, rising from his seat and walking off without so much as a goodbye to Maurice.

 _By the gods, what have I done?_ Maurice thought, burying his head in his hands, anguished. This had been an all-around, foolish, bad idea to tell Belle that her husband, an expert hunter, and tracker, would believe the abduction lie. Gaston wasn't going to be fooled by the signs of the struggle in their home. He would figure things out quickly. And then…

And then he would kill him.


	12. To Come Where I Can See You

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

LeFou blinked owlishly twice at the now-closed wooden kitchen door a few feet away from the pillar behind which he'd hidden in the hopes of avoiding being spotted. The short, squat man hadn't intended to spot the young woman here in the cathedral, and he'd merely stopped by to ask a couple of the parishioners who had come here to pray who were familiar with Gaston Dupont and his family if the girl had come here, to which he'd been disappointed when the people in the nave had shaken their head no, and he'd fully been about to head towards the main exit of the lower level sanctuary, when he'd spotted a familiar flash of blue and brown heading down a darkened corridor and he had decided to follow.

He inhaled a sharp breath of cool air that pained his lungs as he twisted his fingers together. While he did not entirely approve of Gaston's actions, nor the way he treated Belle, LeFou was doing this primarily for his own benefit and gain, for it would gain traction and favor in his friend's eyes, as well as save the shorter, admittedly weaker man from the worst of Gaston's wrath.

However… LeFou frowned and scowled as he turned away from the pillar and began walking in the opposite direction. No point in revealing himself to the girl, for the minute she learned that her husband's friend knew of her whereabouts, most assuredly, the girl would flee again, and then the hunt would begin anew, but…LeFou had found her. He had actually done it. Gaston was going to be so pleased. He stifled a grin to himself and whistled a low tune as he strode out of the cathedral, no one any the wiser as to his presence in the cathedral.

Oh, he couldn't wait to tell Gaston…

* * *

Heartbreak. At times, it felt like Belle's suffering was out to ruin the last few remnants of good in the inventor's daughter's life. She tended to fear people who claimed to like her, people like the man she had talked with last night. With Quasi, and yet, something within her conscience told her that she need not fear the man, so true to her word, she ascended his tower's stairwell with a basket of food, fully intending to share a meal with the man on her first official day within the cathedral, regardless of whether or not the man decided to reveal himself to her and step into the light and out of the shadows. Most of the time, especially since her marriage to Gaston, she was unable to deal with the intensity of their emotions.

Most of the time, like right now, she felt lost, with not a single place in the world feeling like home to Belle. She found herself staring at a spot on the wall once she'd reached the top of the mezzanine, and frowned, mulling over why it was that she felt this way as she gingerly stepped into the bell tower loft and set down the basket one of the nuns had prepared for her on a nearby wooden table. She craned her neck up and tossed her dark wavy hair over her shoulders.

"Quasi?" she called out, wincing, and taking a step back as her voice echoed throughout the tower. Gods, but it was _loud_! Belle briefly wondered how, if he was the church's sole bell ringer, how he was able to devote his entire life to the ringing of the bells and somehow manage not to go deaf. She wondered what his secret for maintaining his hearing might be, given everything up here echoed. "I—it's me. Belle. Sister Maria told me that I would find you up here this morning. Are you up here?" Silence. Which in its own way felt deafening, and Belle could not quite quell the ringing in her ears.

Belle frowned, thinking that perhaps maybe the man had stepped out for a bout of fresh air, and was fully about to turn around, with a light audible thump reached the girl's eardrums, coming from behind. She stifled her smile and turned towards the direction of his silhouette, which, while the illusive man remained shrouded in the shadows still, at least she could see a little of his form, and she was quite surprised that he was taller than she was, then again, most men were.

"Y—you came back," he breathed, his soft, tenor-like tone sounding exhilarated and disbelieving, and for a moment, Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. She thought it odd that Quasimodo would think that she would not return to him.

She had, after all promised him, and Belle liked to think that she was a young woman who kept her promises.

Regardless of the suspicious way the man was behaving, she could not allow herself to scare him away, for this man was perhaps one of the few kind souls within the cathedral's walls that did not judge her based on her looks, for which she was immensely grateful. Belle allowed her face to relax into a general smile and shot it towards the direction of his shadow, hoping that he could somehow see it.

There was a small part of Belle that supposed she ought to be concerned, that this man did not wish to reveal his face to her. It made the minuscule part of her brain that was shallow wonder what the man looked like, if the rumors of what the nuns, monks, and lay brothers had told her during the supper last night was true.

If the man really was as deformed as some of the younger lay brothers made him out to be, and if it really mattered.

"Of course, I came back," Belle chirped jovially with a small shrug of her shoulders, and she gingerly lifted the basket of food that she had brought. "I did after all, promise to shall a meal with you. But gods, you must be starving. I heard the morning Lauds ring this morning, you must wake up at the crack of dawn to—to ring your bells. How you manage to find time in between Lauds and Masses and Vespers to eat and take a break is beyond me, my friend," the inventor's daughter mused, craning her neck to look up towards the uppermost level of the tower's loft, where dozens of bells perched high above her heard. "They are beautiful. I never knew there were so many. They all sound like they have different…personalities, in a way, I guess. You have much talent, my friend, for not many a soul could do what you do."

A beat. A pause. Then the man spoke from the shadows. "Th—thank you. I—it is…difficult work, but th—the bells, they—they speak to me. Everything speaks to me up here. The—the windows, the bells, the saints, the gargoyles. My friends."

Belle felt her heart gave a painful lurch as she realized the sincerity in his magnificent voice, and wondered of the one time that he had stepped outside the cathedral walls, and she hoped that at some point during their growing friendship, that he would tell her of it. How one could spend their entire life cooped up here, never to venture outside was beyond her. "Maybe after we eat, you could give me a tour of your home. I should leave to see more of this place, but for now…I brought us food, but you cannot to remain in the shadows to eat there, my friend," she said cheerfully, lowering her voice and hoisting the basket in her arms. "I thought that perhaps, since the morning is not yet too cold, we could eat outside?"

Belle bit her lip and drew in a breath and held it. Ah, but gods, she knew what she was asking of him was no small feat, and she felt her face fall in disappointment as the shadow's head shook it, silently communicating no.

"Why not?" she challenged hotly, resisting the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. "I do not bite, my friend. I can promise you, Quasi, that I—I mean you no harm. Here, look…" Belle exhaled nervously and slowly through her nose, and noticing a small shaft of early morning sunlight not yet covered by a cloud which had streamed down through an opening between two rafter beams.

She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat as she gingerly set the basket of food by her feet, and took a few steps backward, fully into the light. Her head, which had been lowered and staring at the hem of her dark blue gown, raised slowly, albeit shakily, and as she heard the man's sharp intake of breath, she frowned. She knew what he was thinking. "I know," she growled angrily, clenching her eyes shut and turning her head away, allowing a lock of dark chocolate hair to fall in front of her face. "You can say it. That I am…ugly," she whispered, biting the inside of her cheek.

Physically speaking, Gaston had always told her that she was the most beautiful girl in the entire village, perhaps even in all of Paris, and that made her the best, and Gaston, at least according to the war hero and hunter, was a man who deserved the best, and had taken and rightfully claimed what he believed to be his once Maurice had agreed to his proposal. But the painter and inventor's daughter could not help but to wonder what was to become of her the day that her looks began to fade as she aged?

What would happen to her, then? Would Gaston still remain faithful to her, or would he, as Belle suspected that he might, be prone to 'searching for greener pastures,' and spend his time in a brothel with women who were younger and prettier than she was? Gaston Dupont was a skilled hunter and fighter, and an even more skilled abuser. Belle heard her husband's talent, how proud his parents would have been of him, were they still alive.

If she was ever suffering, he was there by her side to present himself as such. If she cried from deep sorrow, Gaston would say that she was to blame for his misery. Whenever Belle hurt, Gaston amplified his own to become her 'victim' and should that not be sufficient enough for the man, he invented hurts of others that Belle 'inflicted' upon them.

Gaston always averted his gaze, his temper raised, and Belle knew that even she could not suit her husband's ego, preferring real conversations to mindless flattery and tongue biting. Though Belle had no other choice but to be nice to her husband, it would never be because of the way that Belle looked, but because of the way Gaston Dupont looked.

He was his own poison, and it leaked through his skin into those unfortunate enough to share his life, and Belle needed only to catch a glimpse of her husband's eye to see the scared monster within. The one who believed it was just fine to hurt his wife in order to satisfy himself. That was not normal, and it certainly wasn't okay, just as the same way it wasn't normal that the Parisians seem to treat the man with which she was now attempting to share in another conversation in his tower.

All of these factors had rendered Belle's heart hardened and bitter, and as such, she could not look past her physical beauty. Where others saw beauty in her high cheekbones, full luscious pink lips, beautiful brown eyes like the boughs of an old oak tree trunk after a fresh rain, or her dark brown hair that cascaded in gentle waves to just past her shoulders and framed her oblong, pale face, she saw the ugliness within, how her soul had become black and vile in the time that she had been married to Gaston, unable to think of nothing but wicked thoughts of a horrible death would befall her husband and would effectively free herself from this horrible union.

Belle knitted her brows together in confusion, frowning. She did not like to think of such thoughts, and yet she could not seem to shake the feeling that she knew that was what happened. Though a part of her sincerely hoped that Gaston, that boorish, arrogant, vain pig of a man, would die a horrible death before he found here in this holy place, and immediately, Belle felt a stab of guilt prick at her heart for even thinking such a vile thought, and she felt her cheeks flush high with color as a light pink blush speckled along her cheeks. Belle decided she would repent and ask God for His forgiveness later, when she wasn't currently in present company.

"No," Quasi's voice said after a long silence that in its own way, felt threatening to Belle, for reasons she could not explain, and Belle blinked owlishly as she watched his silhouette move in the shadows. She was surprised at how hardened the edges of the man's voice had become, and she recognized that he was angry, though not with her, or her words. "You are not ugly," he insisted, and she could almost picture the tall towering man that hid in the shadows folding his arms across his chest. "Trust me, Belle. I…I know a thing or two about being ugly a—and you are far from it," he growled darkly.

"Tell me," Belle urged, hating the dip, and hearing the crack in her voice, and it took her a moment to realize that it was desperation. "Why would you remain in the darkness? Won't you please come out where I can see you? I—I promise, that I won't…I won't laugh." She inhaled a breath that was more like a hiss and held it, as she watched his shadow stiffen.

And suddenly, Belle Dupont found that she could not meet Quasi's gaze, though given where he was hiding, she could not tell if he was even looking at her, or if he could see what she saw within, every time she was forced to look in a mirror. Then, another thought struck the inventor's daughter. "Y—your name," she breathed, grinding her teeth in anger, and she froze as it was a that particular moment in their mostly one-sided conversation that she saw his towering shadow move.

_Why would somebody name you…?_ But her thoughts trailed off and became silent as she watched the man slowly make his way from behind a nearby wooden pillar and towards the center of the room, close towards the balcony terrace's entryway, where Belle had essentially stood, holding the basket of food she'd packed hostage in an attempt to get him to reveal himself to her. Belle blinked owlishly as the man gingerly stepped from the shadows and joined her in the sunlight.

Belle did not blink or gasp in surprise, though she could feel her dark eyes involuntarily widen and grow wide with shock. She could feel her lips part open and she bit the inside of her cheek as the cathedral's bell ringer blearily lifted his chin to look at the beautiful inventor's daughter. Belle's first thought was that the man was not handsome by any means.

And yet…something about Quasimodo's genuine warmth was contagious, and he had perhaps the best voice she had heard, ever, and that included Gaston's voice. But this bell ringer's voice was rich, smooth, like melted butter. Notre Dame's bell ringer was a tall man, and now that he stood in close proximity to her, she could see that Darius and the others had been right. That he was a young man only a year or two older than she.

Belle bit her tongue as she gave the man a once over. Though he towered over her, perhaps the most striking thing about her new friend in these stone walls was the man's prominent contusion over his left brow bone, which gave his otherwise handsome features a slightly lopsided look.

A wild tuft of coarse fiery ginger red hair was cropped short, though it seemed to have a mind of its own, sticking up this way and that, save for one lock of hair that fell towards the right side of his face, effectively shielding his one good eye, and Belle curled her fingers in a fist, her nails digging into her palms as she resisted the urge to reach up a hand and tousle the man's hair, to see if it was as thick as it really looked.

A quick glance over the rest of his features confirmed to Belle what the other caretakers of the cathedral had been saying about this man. There was a slight hunch near the young twenty-two-year-old's right shoulder, though it did not impede the redheaded bell ringer from standing up at his full height of around 5'8, like he was doing right now, though his gaze was skittish as he actively attempted to avert the young brunette's gaze, which Belle knew considering Parisian standards was shorter than most men in the city.

Belle herself was lucky to be around 5'4 on a good day, and that was only _if_ her boots possessed a particularly high heel. Belle inhaled a sharp breath of cool autumnal air as a fresh breeze wafted through the open, drafty tower loft as the man lifted his chin, jutting it out slightly, and his blue eyes met hers, as though challenging her and daring her to comment on his unfortunate appearance and his deformities, which she would not do it.

Belle could tell that he was well built underneath his white linen long-sleeved shirt and over top that he wore a thick green tunic to provide him some warmth from the bitter Paris breezes that tended to waft through the open spaces of his humble abode, lean but toned after what had to be over ten plus years of ringing the bells of Notre Dame. His white linen shirt was hung open slightly to reveal the hollow column of his pale throat, and Belle found herself inappropriately staring.

She could feel her lips part open slightly as she struggled to think exactly how to phrase what was on her mind right now. His green tunic, brown hose, and brown leather boots were scuffed and well worn from years of care, though she could tell he cared for them, as not a speck of dirt or dust lingered on his boots. Not like Gaston's, she thought angrily.

Belle resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust at the thought of her husband's mud-splattered boots and quickly returned her attention to the man's face. He pursed his lips into a thin, rigid line, and gestured towards himself, tugging on a lock of his fiery red hair, hair like winter fire, pointing to himself with a slightly shaking finger, and tracing the lines on one of his palms with a gloved hand. His brown leather gloves with the fingers cut off that he wore were frayed, a few strings coming loose, and Belle made a mental note to offer to fix them for her new friend later, if she remembered to.

"Monstrous. Almost made. That is what I am, and there is no changing that about me, milady," he growled, his blue eyes narrowing. "I told you that I knew a thing or two of…ugliness, Belle, why would I lie to you?" he snarled bitterly.

Belle's heart practically shattered at seeing the self-loathing in those cobalt blue eyes of his, and finally, after much difficulty, she found her voice, though she hated hearing it shake. "You are wrong, monsieur. Y—your name, I—it might mean 'half formed,' but whoever named you, they were wrong. You are more than your name," she whispered nervously.

She swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat, and wordlessly held up the basket of food, her gaze flitting between Quasimodo and towards the entrance of the balcony, longing to feel the fresh air kiss her cheeks and tousle her hair and the skirts of her dress. "Come," she offered, and before Belle could stop herself, she reached out her hand and took his gloved hand in hers and intertwined her fingers with his and gave it a gentle but firm reassuring little squeeze.

Belle had not expected the simple gesture to send the man into a near panic attack, for he violently shirked away from her touch, wrenching his hand out of hers as though the simple touch had burned the skin of his palm, and the inventor's daughter could have sworn she heard the redheaded bell ringer whimper out of fear and…shame. Yes, shame. Belle frowned. She huffed in frustration and opened her mouth to speak, to retort about how she meant him no harm by it, when the unmistakable sound of the clacking of someone's footfalls, boots by the sound of them, reached Belle's eardrums.

She turned back towards the bell ringer, whose already pale face had drained of color, rendering his features pallid and ashen, beads of sweat forming upon his brow.

"Y—you must go, M—Master is coming, y—you should not be up here w—with me," Quasi urged, desperation in his voice, and Belle let out a hiss as he launched forward and grabbed her arm, intending to drag her towards what appeared to be the south bell tower's stairwell, and Belle realized that she could not allow this to happen.

She had come up here, intending to share a meal with the man, and authority figure or not, whoever this supposed 'Master' of the man's was, she was not going to let that deter her from her goal. Belle clenched her teeth in anger and felt her jaw lock as she dug the heels of her brown boots into the wooden floorboards of the tower loft as Quasi attempted to drag the young woman towards the stairwell with surprising strength, though Belle was not making it easy for her friend.

"Let go!" Belle whisper hissed through clenched teeth, to which Quasimodo shot the inventor's daughter a panicked look and with perhaps more force than was necessary, gripped onto her arm in a tight fist, and Belle flinched. His ironclad grip was strong, and she wondered if the man were aware of his brute own strength, for if he gripped her arm any tighter than he already was, he would surely dislocate it.

She relaxed and exhaled shakily through her nose as she watched as something in his blue eyes softened, and she felt his grip slacken just slightly, and he reluctantly relinquished his hold on her arm. He frowned and opened his mouth to say something, no doubt to try to tell Belle that she should hide, to which she would say she would do no such thing, when a cold baritone voice, deep as thunder, rang through the desolate tower.

"Good morning, Quasimodo." The man's voice was cold, devoid of warmth or emotion. "Ah. I see that you have an…unexpected visitor up here with you. What on earth are you doing in this bell tower, mademoiselle, for it is forbidden to all but myself to venture up to this level of the cathedral. Such behavior is inexcusable. Answer me."

Belle felt her eyes widen and the power of speech leave her as she recognized that voice. With an uncomfortable pit forming in the depths of her stomach, Belle swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat as she slowly turned around.

In moments, she found herself staring face-to-face with none other than the distinguished old man from last night.

Judge Claude Frollo. Belle nervously lifted her gaze to meet the judge's listless gray eyes, and she was not at all surprised to see the elderly man was looking none too pleased to see her up here with the deformed bell ringer of Notre Dame. The way the man's eyes squinted when the Judge glowered at both Belle and Quasimodo reminded the inventor's daughter of a pit viper's slit-like pupils.

She gulped nervously and a quick glance out of the corner of her eyes told her everything that she needed to know, by the way the redheaded bell ringer had hastily bent the knee and when the judge offered one of his hands to his young ward, how he gingerly brought the man's knuckles to his lips and kissed them chastely was that this was the man that she had been warned about, and then the full realization hit Belle.

That this judge was his master. Belle inhaled a sharp breath and held it with bated breath as Judge Frollo turned his attentions towards her. A burning animosity was developing in the man's gray eyes which so coldly rivaled a perfectly polished suit of armor, and Belle could tell that she was likely the root cause of the problem.

Belle exhaled shakily through her nose and painfully wrung her hands together before clasping them in front of her stomach. As far as her first day in her newfound sanctuary, a place that she had one day hoped to call her new home…

Things couldn't possibly get _any_ worse…


	13. A Tense Conversation

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

The Judge barely managed to stifle his low warning growl at the back of his throat that threatened to escape from its confines, directed at his young ward, who had hastily risen to his feet and was actively averting his gaze. His scowl deepened, which created even more lines upon his weathered forehead and a deep groove near his mouth, which turned the corners of his thin lips downwards.

He heaved a heavy sigh and placed the basket of food he'd brought upon a small wooden side table and fixed the young brunette woman with a cold, glowering stare, to which she did not return. Merely, she continued to gawk and stare at him as though she found him…fascinating. Judge Claude Frollo eyed her. This material of beauty, that which was the young brunette. "Your name, dear…" He repressed the urge to roll his eyes as the young woman blinked owlishly at him, clearly not having anticipated his response.

He was not at all surprised to hear her answer. "My…my name?" she whispered in astonishment. She blinked, but quickly recovered. "I-it's B—Belle, Your Grace," she murmured in a voice that was barely above a whisper as the woman dipped her head in acknowledgement and sank into a low curtsy.

The judge allowed a wry smirk to befall his features. "Of course, it is," he retorted, traces of amusement laced throughout his voice. He looked away from the intruder to his ward's bell tower a moment and towards the skies. The skies were dull and grievous this morning. Fitting to match his mood.

Daytime was but a line away from the night, and yet, it made everything to the judge seem sleepless, especially given now that their Majesty his King, and something a personal friend to the judge, King Louis the Prudent himself, was keeping a much closer eye on the judge's actions following the burning of that heathen gypsy witch, the dancer, La Esmeralda, insisting upon no more witch burnings and to treat any arrests with caution, and a more, as the king liked to put it, _humane_ hand.

Judge Frollo snorted in disgust, thinking their king was a weak-willed man with an even weaker mind, and it was Louis's fault for allowing these heathen gypsies wretches into their city. They bred in great numbers, tainting the general population, looting, thieving, raping, and more importantly, avoiding arrest and the judge had deemed it a personal vendetta to ensure all paid for their crimes.

He scowled even heavier, folding his thin arms across his chest, and shrinking into his set of billowing black robes as much as he could for warmth. He himself these nights did not sleep but more than a few precious hours, at best, given by the added crumples at the edges of his light, gray eyes, and the darker circles beneath them. His face, hard from his skin to the two-day stubble currently growing upon his jaw, to thin whiting hair, met the young woman's gaze called Belle with a critical interest.

"You are a Dupont, yes? I recognize it by the ring you wear upon your right hand," he stated matter-of-factually, and as if to emphasize his point, he lifted the young woman's knuckles of her right hand and pressed his lips to the ruby stone of her ring and chastely kissed it, ignoring the look of incredulity in Quasimodo's eyes, and he repressed the urge to break into a triumphant grin as the pretty brunette mutely nodded.

"What of your family, milady?" Claude had heard but many a story of the wealthy Dupont family. How they could have, once upon a time, become kings and lords and rule this part of France with their progeny for the next thousand years, had they not made different choices in life. He did not know much of the family, admittedly, though the fact that a beautiful woman, and a Dupont no less, had claimed sanctuary within Notre Dame's walls, had most certainly piqued his interest.

"I…" Belle blinked, suddenly finding that the power of speech seemed to have momentarily escaped her lips. "My family no longer exists, monsieur," she whispered, clenching her teeth in anger, hating that she was lying through her teeth to a powerful authority figure, and yet something within her heart advised her to do just that. For if he were to learn of her true intent behind her claim to sanctuary, that she had fled from her husband, his reaction would not, she thought, be of a favorable one. The outcome might be quite disastrous. For now, she decided she would divulge limited information.

The judge nodded mutely in acknowledgement. "War is but a terrible thing, mademoiselle, and yet, our king deems it a necessary evil. Just take a look out there," he added, ignoring the redheaded bell ringer for a moment and gesturing with a wide flourish of his arm over the balcony's ledge and down into the town square of the city.

Belle, not wanting to cause further strife, for the moment, decided to play along. "At what, Your Honor?" Her voice was soft, timid, and barely above a whisper.

"These streets— _my_ streets—are overrun by a horde of filthy gypsies with but few things on their mind. They rape, murder, and steal, and yet…for all my efforts to purge Paris of this pestilent race, they _thrive_. They would see our proud city burn to the ground if it meant they could be rulers of the ashes," Judge Frollo growled. He glanced sideways out of the corner of his eyes at the young woman's expression, which, much to his disappointment, remained quite impassive, no trace of her true emotions lingered anywhere on her face or in her eyes. The girl was becoming subject of many stories, of whispers within these walls, as was evident upon his entrance to the cathedral. He had heard Sister Alice, that old hag, gossip to the younger nun, Sister Maria, of how the girl had woken up early this morrow before Lauds had even begun, and had nestled herself in the front pew of the nave down below in the main sanctuary and had spent an hour or two reading a book.

The Judge made a mental note to ask the girl what material she was reading, and if it was appropriate to be read within Holy Ground. The girl was rumored among those more superstitious within the church walls to be a witch, a devil's bride, and the Judge resolved to learn the truth, one way or another. Belle Dupont had become a girl of many stories during her so far one-day stay within her newfound sanctuary, but stories, Claude knew, were for the gullible, and the distinguished Minister of Justice was not about to digest such stupid peasant lies.

Belle was, Claude had to confess, such a sweet sight. In the crisp chilly air of the fall morning, he could practically feel her warmth pulsate the closer she stood next to him. He stifled a growl of frustration as Belle blushed in embarrassment and retreated a few steps back and moved to stand next to his deformed wretch of a ward.

Among the cathedral walls in autumn, standing out on the balcony terrace, she looked like summer, a ray of sunshine, which the judge wished he could bask in her warmth. For a girl who was the same age as Quasimodo, in her early twenties, Belle Dupont resembled more closer a grown woman. Her dark brown eyes were inquisitive with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, given that she was a noble of gentle breeding, her pale skin looked as though it were cut from pure pearls themselves, her small chest a pleasant convex. The child's slim petite figure was eye catching in her dark royal blue velvet gown, and her dark hair smelled of lavender.

The judge frowned, blinking in surprise, finding his young self to be nursing a rather strange desire for this budding little French Rose standing before him and his ward.

Which of course, was impossible for him to act upon such urges given his vows, and this budding little rose was most likely already married or perhaps a widow. Such a pretty little thing would not stay unwed for long, if she were in fact, widowed, as he suspected her to be.

A tense exhale emanated beside the judge, startling him out of his thoughts of the young brunette. Claude angled his head, facing his ashamed misshapen ward's face, whose head was bowed, that one lock of coarse fiery red hair fallen in front of his one good eye. The boy was unhappy here. The Judge heaved a heavy sigh, exhaling slowly through his nostrils and reached out to clamp an arthritic, slightly clawed hand upon the boy's shoulder, near his hump.

"I had not realized that you would be…having guests this morning," he hissed, his gray eyes dull and somber, having not the propensity nor the grace to smile at the boy. "However," the Judge sighed, pinching the bridge of his slender, hooked nose with his thumb and forefinger, "I consider myself to be a reasonable man. Mademoiselle Dupont, if you remain quiet and keep your pestilent questions to a minimum and do not interrupt, I shall allow you to stay while I walk the boy through his lessons. You may stay and break your fast with us if you like, but do not think that I will not forget that you willingly came up here of your own accord, which, I believe I had expressed to you but just last night, to venture beyond the main level of the sanctuary was forbidden."

He watched, feeling somewhat satisfied, as the girl swallowed nervously and dipped her head, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks, though a small part of him was not disappointed when she nodded in agreement. "Very well." The Judge gestured with a jerk of his head towards the spare table back inside the loft, gathering the basket of food in his arms. He glanced at the table when they arrived back inside and sniffed in disapproval. "It would seem that you brought your own…offering, shall we say, my child. How generous of you, Belle." A muffled squeak of fear escaped Quasimodo's lips, and Claude's head whiplashed sharply towards the left as the boy was fumbling about in getting the cups and plates. "Do not put your faith in this _girl_ , Quasimodo," he urged, lowering his voice so that the budding French Rose, who had seated herself next to the chair in which the bell ringer always occupied, "It is likely that she was sent in your path to test you. Resist."

He sneered as he faced his young ward, who was despaired, angry, his head bowed, and he mumbled something inaudible, his tenor-like voice too low for the judge to make out what was being said. The boy, Claude could tell, was particularly happy with this little arrangement.

Judge Claude Frollo found his gaze yet again drifting towards the young woman and settling upon her eyes. And suddenly, he watched, slightly mesmerized, as Belle Dupont's face changed, as if by magic, as the edges of her lips turned upwards in a shy smile, and she played with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm, despite the long flared trumpet sleeves of her velvet gown, the judge surmised it to be a nervous habit of hers. The wretched bell ringer did something similar whenever he was upset.

It lifted his mood immensely, which he thought rather strange, and the Judge loosened his fist, and he himself felt his lips turn up in a crooked little-half smile. Claude coughed once or twice to clear his throat, turning his attention towards his ward, the main reason for his visit to the cathedral today. He had not anticipated to find anyone else up here with the deformed wretch of a boy but yet…Secretly he felt…pleased, and he could not quite explain it.

"Shall we go over your Latin today?" he asked, knitting together his graying brows in slight confusion as he saw a look of strange revolt in Quasimodo's eyes, scowling as the boy mutely nodded and hung his head.

The redheaded bell ringer's face was pale, as though the Judge had lashed out with his hand and struck him. His lips slightly agape as if devoid of words as his skittish gaze flitted between the young woman's and his master's. And new his eyes were new to take in the sight of. The Judge found himself involuntarily leaning forward in his chair, as though his body were no longer taking direction from his mind, to better see into his young ward's eyes. The brilliant blue within them was suddenly drained, turning them into almost a strange dull gray pool that there were no words to describe their color.

Judge Frollo scowled. Only once had he seen the boy this…aghast, and that was the morning the heathen gypsy witched burned. The girl had died of smoke inhalation before the flames consumed her. The judge looked over at the deformed bell ringer with his eyes in quandary, sincerely hoping that he wouldn't have to use brute force on the wretch to get him to cooperate. It had been little over six months now since their last little 'incident,' and this time, he saw that terrified boy seated across from him again. Afraid. Haunted, almost, even. The judge tore his gaze away from his ward and back towards Belle, she who was sweet, sinless.

He frowned as he could imagine the girl seated next to his son testing the boy's virtues, rendering him insane. He would want to see the last image of her face smiling, for he knew that if he allowed this girl to further seek company with his son, that he would not see her in this light again. His mind was distracted as he ran the boy through his teachings of Latin. "Very good, my son," he drawled, his baritone voice slow and smooth as he slammed shut his book, the loud unexpected noise making both the girl and the boy jump in fright and astonishment, not having anticipated it. "Your Latin improves. We shall resume our lessons next month. Milady Dupont, might you escort an aging man downstairs? My joints tend to flare up every time I ascend these wretched staircases."

Belle blinked, not knowing what to make of the judge's request, but quickly nodded, and rose, albeit shakily so, from her chair and offered the judge her arm, throwing Quasimodo a furtive, apologetic glance with her eyes as she did so. The Judge silently seethed, though made no comment. He waited until they had reached the bottom step of the stairwell and the judge stepped off, the girl following his head, to turn towards the Dupont girl and steadily lower his tone.

"You are most welcome to remain in the cathedral, my child, but I must insist that it is for your own good that you no longer partake in offering my son your company. The boy is an accursed wretch and he does not deserve your company, mademoiselle." He watched, feeling only slightly amused as the girl's face blanched and paled in shock, her lips parted open, no doubt she was preparing to offer back some fiery retort, to which he did not give her time to formulate an apt response to his demands. "Consider this your one and only warning, and the only time I will offer you my advice, my dear. You are a clever and intelligent woman, full of potential and promise, that which will be squandered if you continue to visit my son."

The Judge swallowed hard past a lump forming in his throat as the girl's white face was evident against the dull gray of the cathedral's stone walls. Her splendid demeanor and her beauty was utmost undeserving of the sheer mess that the boy's bell towers were, and he resisted the urge to crinkle his nose in disgust. How the girl could wish to spend an hour up there in the dank, drafty cold with a deformed monster was beyond him.

"I do not speak these words lightly," he continued, clenching his jaw shut and grinding his teeth in anger, his hand drifting down to grip upon her arm. "You must take great care of the company you seek, mademoiselle. The boy may be grown in body, but his mind is still very much like a child, Lady Dupont."

Belle furrowed her dark brows into a frown. "Looking at him, I do not see a child, Your Grace. And as for me seeing him again…should that not be for me to decide, Your Grace?" she asked. "Your… _ward_ ," she added, no shortage of disgust lingering in her voice, "strikes me as quite lonely, monsieur, and with you being the only company he keeps, it is quite easy to see why he is so miserable up there," she spat, venom dripping from her words like poisoned honey. "For I believe, Your Honor, that it is _you_ who does not deserve _him_ ," she snarled, her dark eyes narrowing in anger, and without another word, she turned on the heel of her brown boot and bolted back up the north bell tower stairwell from which she had just descended.

Though her words directed towards the judge had been ones of anger, again, the judge could detect the tinge of melancholia in Belle Dupont's voice. Were someone to ask Claude what he thought of this second encounter with the strange young budding French Rose, this pretty little thing, he would have described the young woman as anxious, glum, and quite sad.

Judge Claude Frollo pursed his thin lips into a straight, narrow, and rigid line as he stared at the stairwell, at the spot where the girl had stood before him only moments before, seemingly unafraid and undaunted by the authority that he held with his duties as Minister of Justice.

Claude felt himself break in a slow exhale, his lined, weathered face an alloy of constraining want and restraints towards the young brunette. His eyes lingered upon the spot where Belle Dupont had stood. He finished his sentence that he had been speaking.

"She really is a beauty, but a funny girl. You do not deserve her, Quasimodo, mark my words," he growled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The Judge turned around and stormed out of the cathedral, his black robes billowing behind him as he moved, his thoughts lingering on visions of the lovely Belle.

That was perhaps the second time that a young woman had dared to speak her mind to the Judge, though this one was not one who was so easily afraid, and her words had left the Judge speechless…and slightly aroused…


	14. The Bell Tower

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Belle did not honestly know why she was so incredibly angry, and why she could not shake the judge’s thinly veiled threat from her mind as she stormed back up towards the bell tower’s loft, where she’d left Quasi, who would, it would seem, had not moved from his spot as he stood rigidly in the same spot where he had been prior to her escorting the judge down the stairs. “How you have lived with that man for all your life is an enigma to me, Quasi. That judge is horrible, a—and somebody _needs_ to stand up to him. That foul, loathsome, evil little _worm_ ,” she growled through gritted teeth. “I am…sorry. I know a thing or two about bad men, of which he is one,” she snapped, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, and pointing towards the stairwell from which she had just come. “Why do you not stand up to him, Quasimodo? Do not let him treat you that way. To see you behave the way that you do around him is despicable,” she retorted hotly, her hands on her hips, and upon seeing that the basket of food lay untouched, she seized her opportunity and grabbed the basket. “Come. I did promise to share a meal with you, and that’s what I aim to do. Maybe now that we are _alone_ , and no other ears are listening in,” she emphasized darkly through gritted teeth, “I can get to know you better, my friend. Come on.”

Quasi blinked, momentarily startled, as the young woman outstretched her hand, and without waiting for him to react, she pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and promptly interlaced her fingers with his. She blinked, startled. His hands were…not at all what she had expected. Given he mostly wore those thick leather gloves the few times she had seen him, she had expected his hands to be rough like Gaston’s, maybe even calloused, given he tugged on frayed bell ropes all day. But they were not. The skin of his palm against hers felt nice. Smooth.

But more importantly, it felt…right, and Belle was stunned at the beginnings of an incredible heat spreading to the tips of her fingers, where their hands connected. And then she watched as the start of a smile crept onto his face, and Belle quickly returned the gesture, thinking that the redheaded bell ringer did truly look handsome to her when he smiled.

Quasi hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, but the moment he felt the young brunette gingerly tug him towards the direction of the Rose Window balcony, he followed suit, his legs no longer taking directions from his frazzled mind.

“You are quite kind and gentle, my friend,” Belle complimented the moment they stepped out into the open air. “Paris needs more people like you and less people like your maître,” she growled darkly, turning away and sliding down to the balcony terrace floor, letting herself get situated, her back resting against the wall as she smoothed the skirts of her gown. The painter and inventor’s daughter felt her jaw drop open slightly in shock as instead of choosing to sit in close proximity to her, he perched himself up on the ledge of the balcony’s railing (much to her horror), one leg dangling precariously over the edge as he sat so carefree, as though what he were doing were the easiest thing in the world.

His abilities astonished Belle if she was being honest with herself. Every step the man took, he did so gracefully.

Belle knew that if she were to try what he was doing, she'd most certainly fall and kill herself, or at least break her foot when she fell. But not him. For all she knew, he'd been doing this all his life. "You're very strong and fast on your feet," she laughed as he jumped down back in front of her. "I'm impressed!"

He smiled wistfully. "Yes, I am," he admitted, a note of pride in his voice as he looked at the petite brunette in amusement, his gaze not lingering long as his eyes briefly wandered the length of her body, admiring her good form and the way her dress hugged her, emphasizing her best qualities, her slender waist, and small frame.

This girl was beautiful; it was her eyes he was drawn to the most, however. A deep rich brown, with hair to match her eyes. Her brown hair like wet fallen autumn leaves cascaded to her shoulders in loose waves and natural layers, an unusual look for a young Parisian woman such as her, but even he had to admit, it suited her. Quasi liked to be able to see the woman's eyes. Her eyes reflected her very soul, to show the kind and gentle person that this girl so clearly was. He blushed, well aware he was staring, and returned his attention to the sunrise.

The sunrise was gorgeous. As the sun creeped up over the horizon, fleeting colors of dusk began to fade away. The sky was on fire, lit up with the beginnings of pinks, purples, and oranges. It was truly breathtaking.

"Wow," she breathed, surprised she could even find her voice. Belle leaned against the railing, her arms resting on the railing for support as she climbed up higher to get a better look, as she watched the sky settle into the early hours of the evening. "I've never seen anything like this in my life, is it always like this? It's beautiful out here! You're lucky!" she exclaimed. She lifted her skirts and leaned to get a better look despite her fear of heights, but she'd never seen anything like this.

Quasi smiled at her curiosity. This woman was pure, innocent. His gaze was fixed on her instead of the sunrise, enjoying watching her reaction at the sunrise. As he studied the young woman’s face, how awestruck she was, a thought occurred to him. "Is this your first time outside?" he asked, dumbfounded. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yes," she admitted sheepishly, throwing a charming grin his way. "I'm afraid it is," she confessed painfully.

"Why?" he asked, shocked, as he clambered over the railing, much to Belle's distress to study her face.

"Oh, be careful, please!" she pleaded. "Don't fall!"

He smirked and rolled his eyes. "I won't," he reassured her kindly, although she didn't look convinced. "Here, if it truly bothers you that much, I'll sit here next to you. Is this better?" he muttered kindly, chuckling softly as he took a seat next to her, sitting cross-legged on the railing as though he casually sat on the brink of death every day of his life.

"Better," she agreed, though she still looked worried. "My…family member," she explained, a dark look dimming her normally kind eyes as she thought of Gaston, though she could not reveal to her new friend the true nature of her husband, for it would surely kill him if he learned of the horrible physical and emotional abuse he inflicted on Belle. "He—he never let me outside. He told me my skin was too delicate to be touched by the sun, so he…didn't let me out, he forbade it unless he came with me," she whispered, looking pained. "This is my first time outside in a _long_ time."

Quasi drew in a sharp breath and held it. How similar their life situations were.

Both had come from masters that had abused them. He noticed that the woman had a nasty looking bruise underneath her eye, and a burn mark on her arm that looked like it was on its way to healing. His blood boiled and ran cold at the thought of someone hurting this woman, she, who was so kind and sweet.

How anyone could hurt her was beyond him…

Belle smiled sharply and turned her attention back to the sunrise, closing her eyes as the wind kissed her hair, tousling it and rustling her skirts. To her, the breeze was refreshing even though it was cold. It gave new life. She rolled her neck to crack it to ease the stiffness and made the grave mistake of looking down at the city before her. "It's beautiful up here, you're lucky to live in such a beautiful place," she whispered. "But the only small problem is, I—I'm afraid of heights," she moaned. She reached out her hand instinctively for the bell ringer, hoping he could find something for her to grab onto. She was going to fall. She felt herself beginning to lean, and if she fell off the turret, only the stones waited, and Death would greet her like an old friend. To plummet to her grisly death was not how she'd choose to die.

"Here, I've got you," Quasi said suddenly, grabbing her by her waist without thinking twice, pulling her away from the railing, watching her with careful amusement. "You can see everything from up here," he laughed, but his laughter didn't reach his eyes. He worried about her. "These heights, they aren't for everything. I've been up here for years, so I'm used to it." His hands, which were surprisingly gentle given the harsh nature of his work, lingered near her waist for a moment, ready to catch her if she fell.

Belle stared at him, a hand over her heart in shock. She had almost fallen, but he'd caught her. He saved her. "You saved me," she croaked, her voice hoarse. "Thank you. I almost fell, but…you saved me," she whispered.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned. "And of course, I saved you," he added, unable to resist throwing in a quip of his own. "I wasn't just going to let you fall to your death."

"Thank you," she gasped, reaching out a hand and placing it on his shoulder to steady herself. He glanced down at her hand, confused, but choosing not to say anything. Her hand on his shoulder felt nice, and he felt justified in having her keep it right where it was, if only for a moment. "Have you lived up here a long time?" she asked, desperate to change the subject, continuing to gaze at the endless sky before them and glanced back at his tower loft. "It's so peaceful and quiet here, it's amazing."

"My whole life," he answered quietly.

"Well, it seems like a wonderful place to live," she said, not bothering to hide the note of jealousy in her voice. Never in her life had she seen such a beautiful place like his tower. The man had made it his own space, had done his best to make it feel like a home. Home. Something she'd not had, not since she had married Gaston and moved in with him.

"It is," Quasi responded, quirking his brow at her and smirking. "But in the winter, it can get very cold up here."

She laughed, feeling a huge weight lift from her shoulders and her heart the more time she spent with him. Belle was glad he'd accepted her invitation to share a meal with her. _Darius was right. This man is very kind and gentle_. "It's beautiful," she complimented, as she took a handful of grapes and passed the rest to him. "It's like seeing a different city up here, at the top of the world. Moments like these are so fleeting and hard to come by, but since you live up here, I imagine you have a lot of them. Do you?" she asked, turning, and meeting his one good eye with hers.

Quasi cringed at having been caught staring at her and turned away, blushing in embarrassment. _How could I have been so stupid?_ He cursed inwardly. _It's rude to stare, and yet I—I can't help myself. She's beautiful. You're unlike any other woman I've ever met, not even Esmeralda had this effect on me all those months ago. You're different._

"I…" he started to respond but couldn't. He stared. Her words were poetry, graceful, her beauty rendered him breathless and at a loss for words. _What do I say to her?_

"It's beautiful," she said again, her eyes drawn to the sky.

Unbeknownst to her, his eyes were on a different view. _Her_. "Yes, you are," he muttered under his breath. She turned to stare at him, and he blanched and immediately began trying to correct his mistake. "I—I mean, yes, it is. There's never been a sunrise quite like this one. They're like this most nights, especially during the harvest season. "Y—you’ve a beautiful name, Belle," he spoke up quietly. He blushed and looked down at her hand, which still rested on his shoulder. She was waiting for him to elaborate. "Uh, it's, it's—I—I mean…" _Damn_ , he cursed, turning away sharply from her, knowing full well he was looking like a fool in front of this beautiful woman. "I—I'm sorry…"

"Are you always this articulate?" she teased, picking at her nails as she carefully watched his reactions change.

He coughed once to mask his embarrassment. "You could say that,” he groaned, knowing full well the gargoyles would give him seven shades of holy hell in a little while for being this embarrassed. But he couldn’t help himself.

"It's unique," she admitted, looking surprised.

"I know," he groaned, running a hand through his tousled red hair. "I know it's different. I've never liked it."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she spoke up softly, surprising him. "I will admit, I've never heard a name quite like yours before. What…what does it mean?" she asked, biting her lip and cursing herself the minute she asked the question. _Fool! You know full well what his name means. Half-formed. What a cruel name for someone so kind and gentle_.

"You'd be the first," he admitted crossly, leaning against the railing as he looked out at the fading sunrise. He seemed to be struggling to compose himself. A muscle in his jaw was twitching involuntarily. "It…my name, it means…half-formed," he said, his voice cracking slightly, his tone pained. "I hate it."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she spoke up softly. "I don't think that at all. I like it."

Belle fell silent, not sure how to respond. Internally though, she was delighted that he'd accepted her apology and she knew by the look in his eyes that she was perhaps the first person he'd opened up to in a long time, and she'd only known him for a precious hour, at best. Time seemed to fly up here. A flash of gray moved between her line of vision and she jumped and took a step backward, startled. What she thought she saw made her burst out laughing. _Clearly, I'm going insane. I have to be, there's no other explanation_.

"What's wrong?" Quasi asked, raising an eyebrow, confused at her outburst. "Did you see something?"

"I—I thought I saw something. I—I can't. Never mind, it's stupid," she muttered under her breath, still giggling.

"No, you saw something," he urged, not unkindly. "What's wrong, what did you see? You can tell me."

"I... well, it's the gargoyles," she whispered, biting her lip as she grabbed his arm to steady herself. "I heard voices. When I came up to see you earlier, wh—when you were in the rafters, I heard someone else with you, you were talking to someone, a woman. I heard other voices."

He cringed, hoping his discomfort didn't show on his face. _Laverne_ , he thought and stifled a growl. He'd have to talk with his guardians later. He'd warned them about the dangers of letting anyone but him see them in their natural forms. Why she'd chosen to reveal herself to Belle, he didn't know, but he'd have to address it later, for what felt like the millionth time.

"Well, they were—they were moving," she continued, her voice quickening and she tripped over her words. "They were—they were alive!" She paused and groaned. "But that's dumb, isn't it? Of course, they're not alive, are they?" Belle let out a deep sigh, turning away. "I know what I saw, they're alive!" she protested, not looking at him, as though she were afraid of what his reaction would be. _He must think I'm insane_ , she thought, doing her best to hide her disappointment.

But to her surprise, he stepped in front of her, his normally kind blue eyes flashing angrily. "No," he answered firmly, a muscle in his jaw jumping, as his face grew hard and rigid. He was growing upset. "No, you're not stupid, and you're not crazy," he snapped. He didn't like it when she spoke ill of herself, not at all. "I believe you."

"But I—" she started to say but trailed off, worried.

"You're right," he spoke up softly. "I do talk to them sometimes. They listen," he said, smiling at her in a way that almost made her heart stop. "Everything talks to me," he explained, his eyes glinting mischievously in the sunlight, mysterious and alluring. "The gargoyles, the bells, they're my…my friends," he admitted, his face flushing as he realized how this admission sounded, growing worried as he wondered what she would think of him. "I know I shouldn't have said anything, it's stupid!" he growled, turning away from her, averting her gaze. "It's dumb, I know it is and how it sounds."

"No, no, I don't think that at all!" she protested, reaching out a reassuring hand and laying it on his arm, hoping the simple gesture was enough to calm him. "I like your friends."

He fell silent, his gaze drifting to her hand. Her hand was warm and gentle, her fingers delicate, her nails clean and short. It was a moment before he spoke again.

"Are you native to France?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. This woman had spent the better part of an hour with him so far, and still, he knew very little. "Where are you from if I may ask? Your accent is French, but you…" he trailed off as he looked into her eyes. How on earth could he begin to tell her what he thought? How Quasi thought she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met, how her beauty rendered him speechless, how when she looked him in the eyes, her gaze pierced his heart and made him feel like he was suffering a heart attack and he couldn't breathe, but he didn't care. Belle had to be an angel. He could tell she was a beautiful woman, not just in physical beauty, but the way she carried herself.

From the love she gave to her ideas, to the way she complimented his efforts to make his tower loft feel as close to home as he could come. This girl was one who wrapped her arms around the soul of the world, of all who loved her, and who needed to be loved. She was beautiful and her soul pure. The fact that he could see it for himself made him smarter than most. _Don't you start falling for this girl. Your heart will only be broken again when she rejects you. Don't do it. Stay away from her if you know what's good for you._

Belle smiled and rested her chin in her hands as she stared up at the vast array of colors, pinks, oranges, yellows, as the sun poked out from behind a cloud. "Saint Paul de Vence is my home. _Was_ my home, I mean, until my father and I moved closer to Paris during one of the wars, and now I suppose Paris is my home now," she corrected as she spoke. "I miss it. It was like nowhere else in the world."

"I've never been," he answered quietly, never taking his eyes off her as she spoke. "I've never left the cathedral, I'm afraid. Was it nice there?" _My God_ , he thought. _Her eyes are spellbinding. I've never seen eyes like yours. Beautiful_.

As soon as Belle had dared to enter his tower and he saw her again, it was if his whole world in the loft stopped, leaving only the two of them. He knew that as he looked at her, she was going to be the one that would change the way he forever viewed the world up here.

"It was beautiful," she whispered, her eyes misting slightly as she remembered the village of her youth. "Perhaps one day I can go back. I think you would like it there," she added, giving him a tiny smile that sent his mind reeling and he felt a little dizzy if he were being honest with himself. It had been a long time since a woman had dared to venture into his tower, not since Esmeralda. His face fell slightly as he asked the next question that was burning on the tip of his tongue. He hadn't wanted to get his hopes up, but it was too late for that now. "Where's home for you now?" he asked, averting her gaze as he prepared himself to be disappointed.

Of course, she couldn't stay in Notre Dame forever, surely she had a family, a home of her own to go back to. To think that he might finally have made a friend to share in the joys of his tower with was a simple, impossible dream for him. But still, he had to know. If he didn't, he'd go insane.

Belle stared at him, smiling shyly. "My home is here." Quasi's eyes widened at her news, hardly daring to believe it. At last, he'd have someone to talk to besides Alice, Jeanne, and Darius. Something he'd longed for in the last eight years, but like everything in his life, had deemed it a lost cause. But not anymore.

Belle managed a small half-smile and turned her attention back to the sunrise. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, clutching herself as she tried to stay warm. Though it was still early morning yet, it was quite chilly, and the temperatures would only get colder as fall continued on at its petty pace, and old man winter not far behind her.

"You're cold," Quasi exclaimed suddenly. Almost as if he blamed himself for the fact that she was cold, a sullen look overcame his handsome features as he stood and paced the railing, much to Belle's distress. One wrong step and he'd fall to his death. "Why didn't I see it? I'm so sorry!"

"Be careful, please!" she begged, not knowing what to do. She held out her hands to hopefully catch him if he stumbled, but she hoped that he wouldn't. "Don't fall!"

Quasi noticed her panicked stare and smirked. His smile faltered and he lost his footing. He let out a shout of panic as he caught his fall, straddling the railing, breathing heavily. "Damn!" he swore through gritted teeth.

Belle let out a startled cry and rushed forward to help him. "Oh no, just hang on," she pleaded. "I—I've got you; I'm not going to let you fall," she declared, a fierce determination in her voice as she grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to her. His eyes met hers, gleaming playfully in the light, and he laughed, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously as he waited for her to catch on. It took the girl a moment for her shock to wear off before she realized that he'd been joking. She punched him in the arm and felt her face go ashen, completely devoid of color. "Oh my God, don't do that again!" she yelled. "What were you _thinking_? Oh, I hate you so much right now!" she shouted, although her tone was teasing. She bit her lip and playfully swatted him on the arm.

The bell ringer laughed and held up his hands in defense as she jokingly attacked him. "I'm sorry," he apologized, still laughing at her bewildered expression. "I couldn't resist," he joked.

"Don't scare me like that!" she groaned. Belle sighed and rubbed her temples, embarrassed that she'd fallen for it. "Are you all right?"

"I should be asking you that," Quasi retorted, still chuckling, bringing one knee up close to his chest, and wrapping his arms around it, letting his other leg dangle precariously over the edge. "You okay? You look a little dazed," he snorted, shaking his head a little.

"I'm fine," she snapped. Belle suppressed a shudder as she glanced down over the railing. "Just…try to be more careful. Don't fall, or I won't be able to help you! Don't do that again!"

"You don't have to worry about me," he reassured her, still laughing. "You don't. I've been climbing these walls since I was seven. I won't fall." He paused. "You don't like heights, do you? I can tell," he laughed. "It's in your eyes."

"No, I don't," she admitted, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. A cold breeze sent a chill down her spine and she trembled.

"Damn," he growled. "You're still cold! I'm so sorry, I—I shouldn't have…don't move, wait here, I'll be back!" he commanded, fleeing so fast she barely had time to react before he returned with a thick wool blanket. "Here, this should help," he said kindly, draping it over her shoulders.

"Thank you, Quasi, you're very kind," she said quietly.

Quasi startled at the compliment and let out a bitter laugh as he ripped off a chunk of bread with his teeth. They'd managed to work their way through most of the grapes but had neglected the bread. "I don't know about that," he managed after a few minutes of silence between bites. "If you're smart, and you are, you'll stay away from me. You'd be wise to keep your distance," he warned.

Belle wondered if she'd said something to upset him. "Did I say something wrong? I apologize if I upset you…"

Quasi sighed, squaring his shoulders. He ripped his half of the bread loaf into bits and moodily threw the remains to a couple of nearby pigeons, which had been hovering, eagerly waiting for one of them to drop a morsel. "No," he said finally, his voice pained. "As I said before, I—people don't have the best luck being around me," he managed. "It's better for you not to get too close to me, the only thing I'll bring is heartache, I promise you."

Belle's heart broke at seeing so much pain in his eyes. _How one man can live up here for twenty years by himself and not die of loneliness, I'll never know_ , she thought, marveling at how brilliant his eyes were, how they conveyed a multitude of emotions in just a single look. Finally, she spoke up. "Don't you think that's for me to decide, Quasi? I fail to see how you bring ruin to people's lives. Forgive me if I'm being so forward, but I just cannot see it. You're kind, gentle. I'd like to see you again, if you will have me, please," she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head sharply and regarded her for a moment.

"No. I can't," he managed, his voice cracking.

"You'd truly try to keep me from seeing you again?" she demanded, feeling herself begin to grow inexplicably angry. Belle took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down. _And this morning had been going so well, too_ , she thought, distraught.

Quasi stared at her, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. "Did you—did you want to see me again?" he managed after a long silence, as though he'd misheard her.

"If you will have me," she said firmly, jutting her chin out in defiance. "You and I, we're alone in this world. I have no one here I can confide in, to call a friend here." She fell silent, turning her gaze back to the sky, folding her arms across her chest, a sullen but intrigued expression on her beautiful features. "Are the rumors true?" she asked at last, biting her lip as she turned to look at the young bell ringer. "There have been…rumors. The nuns downstairs. Alice and Jeanne have been catching me up to speed, shall we say, to put their gossip politely," she said at last, looking pained. "Did you really risk your freedom to save an entire race of people? You broke through your chains to save a woman from burning?" she asked, at last, sounding dazed.

"Y—yes, I did," he stammered, growing flustered.

"Why did the soldiers put you in chains?" she asked, feeling her voice go hard as her temper swelled at the thought of someone harming this sweet man in front of her. "Well?"

"I…was helping the Romani people, and my…father, he—he didn't trust me anymore," he explained, surprised at the admission of the truth. It had been so long since he talked about it. "It was nothing. It was the right thing to do. If I didn't do it, someone else would have…I hope…" he said, growing nervous and not used to this sort of praise he was getting from Belle.

Belle could only stare. "I think you don't give yourself enough credit," she said at last, momentarily forgetting her place. "What you did for the entire city of Paris was amazing. Not many could have done what you did. You're entirely too modest." He smiled warmly at his new friend, feeling the beginning of something stirring in his heart. Belle gave him a forced smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her brown eyes were pained. "Are you…okay?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

"I—I'm fine," he said, a little too quickly. He wondered how long he'd been staring at her, and if he'd made her uneasy yet. He cursed himself for getting so attached easily. _She probably doesn't even like you_ , the demon inside his head whispered. _She's probably just doing this for her own atonement. There's no way she could be interested in me. What could she possibly see in someone like me, a monster? This woman, she's beautiful, and I'm...evil. No. I can't get too close to her. I just can't. She's better off this way._

Belle quirked her brow suspiciously at him, not buying it. She tried again. "Are—are you sure you're okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said, letting out a nervous laugh.

"You don't look very fine to me," she laughed. It was a moment before the girl spoke again. She seemed to struggle with the urge to say something, but finally, she held up the wooden carving of Frollo that made the bell ringer draw in a sharp breath that pained his lungs. "I believe this is yours You have quite a talent for carving. I'd love to see how it's done. Perhaps you can show me sometime? I'd love to learn! I....I saw your display on my first night here. How many of these have you made?"

"I've lost count," he chuckled. His brow furrowed slightly as he frowned at the figure of Frollo in her hand. "How did you…?"

"This man…he is your father, wasn't he? Judge Frollo?" she asked, her tone saddened, and if he wasn't mistaken, a note of hate. "I'm so sorry you have to deal with that man. He claims to be a righteous man, but he thinks only of himself.”

Quasi stared at her, confused. "You know him personally? How?"

A light blush spread across her pale cheeks, causing them to become high and flushed with color, and she realized she did not mention their encounter, where she had met him the other night outside the kitchens. "I…we've met," she said.

"He—yes h—he’s my father, Belle. He raised me. He…is the only family I have," he confessed, his voice pained.

"I—I'm sorry I stole it, I—I found it the other night when I came up here," she admitted, chuckling nervously. Her smile faltered and she looked out over the balcony and into the massive city of Paris. "Frollo was a horrible man. I can't imagine growing up with him as your father." Belle's gaze drifted down to the wooden figure in her hand, and before she could stop herself, a single tear rolled down her cheek as she stared at the figurine of Claude. She clutched the figurine tightly in her hand, hard enough that the wood splintered and pricked her palm. It hurt, but she ignored it.

Before her own mind was even aware of what she was doing, Belle drew back her arm and she hefted the figure of Claude over the edge as far she could throw it, not caring what Quasi would think. She turned to Quasimodo, who was looking like he was fighting back the urge to break into tears and laugh at the same time. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "But why you would want a reminder around of a man who continues to be so cruel to you, I can't fathom it. You're better off without the constant reminder in your life, Quasi," she said, her eyes pained as she looked into his eyes. "I just did you a favor. So, you're welcome. There's no need to thank me," she teased, biting her lip, a playful gleam in her haunting brown eyes.

Quasi was stunned and at a loss for words. "Don't be, you've nothing to apologize for," he said, surprising even himself. He should be angry, that she'd gone through his things without his knowledge, but to his surprise, he wasn't. "You were just curious. I don't blame you for wanting to know more," he sighed, feeling hurt. A thought struck him as he recollected how she'd spoken to the figurine of Frollo, almost as if...as if she knew more about Master Frollo than the girl was letting on. And then he remembered the look in Master’s eyes, and how his father had promptly asked of Belle to escort him back down to the main level of the cathedral, no doubt wishing to have a word with her in private.

_But how could that be? What on earth could Father have wanted with Belle?_

"You spoke to him as though you knew him. Did you?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Belle startled, feeling her cheeks flush high with color. "I..." she hesitated, her voice trailing off as she nervously averted his gaze. _I cannot tell him about Gaston, or about the man’s threat. If you ever found out the truth about me, you wouldn't want to be my friend_. She sighed, rubbing her temples. _Don't I owe him the truth? He's been nothing but kind to me ever since last night_. "I... thought perhaps he would be kind, but I can see now, he’s just like everyone else," she confessed, surprised to hear himself talk about it after all. "How could one man become so cruel and heartless? He almost destroyed Paris, and all for what? A woman," she hissed through clenched teeth. "He was insane. The world is better off without a man like that in our lives, all he brings to Paris was genocide and ruin, and the fact our King has pardoned him is beyond despicable," she said, her voice pained.

Quasi drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs. _Esmeralda_ , he thought painfully, and quickly brushed aside thoughts of La Esmeralda for now. _No. Don't think about her_. Instead, he found his gaze fixated on the young brunette, drawn to her eyes and unable to look away. She noticed him staring and quirked her brow at him.

"You all right?" she asked, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You look a little dazed," she teased, echoing his own words back at him from earlier.

"I…thought I saw something," he lied, looking away. Quasi fell silent, thinking about her words. His gaze drifted upwards to the bruise underneath her eye. He couldn't resist anymore. He had to know. "Your eye. Underneath. It doesn't hurt you at all? That's quite a bruise. What happened to you?" he asked, curious.

Belle felt her face drain of color. _Oh no. I didn't expect anyone here from the church would ask me about it and now that he has, I don't know what to say to him_ , she thought wildly as she struggled to think of a response. The bell ringer quirked his brow at her, a suspicious look on his face as he waited for her answer. She hadn't expected to have to explain what had happened, how Gaston had hit her, and she wasn't sure what she wanted to do. _Can I tell him the truth? No, I can't. Not yet. Don't tell him_. "I…I bumped into a door my first night here, I'm afraid," she lied, troubled at how easy the lie came to her.

_So long have I invented excuses for Gaston's abuse. Covering the cuts and the bruises. Just once, I wish I could talk about what he's done to me, what I've had to endure, but I can't do that to you_ , she thought, as she found herself once again being pulled into Quasi's eyes. His knowing gaze pierced her heart, and she could tell he was skeptical and didn't fully believe her story, but he chose to let it go for now, for which she was grateful.

Recognizing that he needed some space, Belle knew that her time with him was up, at least for now. "Well," she stammered, releasing her grip on the blanket, and letting it fall to the balcony floor. "It's—it's late, and well, I should—I should go," she murmured, aware she was babbling, a trait in herself she'd always hated. "Will I see you later? I was planning to explore the town in a bit, but I could come to see you here in your tower, if you will have me, Quasimodo?" she asked, for the first time, hearing the note of hope in her voice.

_Hope. Something I haven't felt in ages_. Belle anxiously bit the inside of her cheek and waited. As she looked at Quasi, she knew then that he was the embodiment of hope. Hope was in the way he smiled, in the way he was quiet when he reached out with only his eyes, communicating by saying nothing and everything all at once.

Hope was in that soft shrug of his, the casual way he shrugged his shoulders, trying to brush off his greatness by being modest, and the playfulness that let Belle know that he actually believed in himself. It was in the way he walks, more confident than before, holding his head a little higher. Every time he reached for the sun, he was part of the hope for them all, a precious part of life here in Paris. She hoped he would say yes.

Belle couldn't explain it, but she felt drawn to the man. He had a presence when she was around him, she felt at peace and happy, a feeling she'd had only once before when it had just been her and Maurice in their simple cottage, before Gaston had dared to enter into their lives. How she longed to spend more time with him, to get to know him better as a person. Belle could have continued talking with him well into the late hours of the night, but she'd kept him up late as it was, and she recognized by the look on his face that he needed to be alone, but perhaps he would want to see her again. Quasi's head turned sharply and he regarded her for a moment.

"I'd like that," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a gentle smile. As she retreated, Belle heard the bell ringer call out to her. "Wait! When can I expect you? I have Mass and Vespers to ring in the evenings, but I'm free after that if you want to visit," he asked, bringing a smile to Belle's face.

Before she could process what was happening, she reached up on the tips of her toes. As Belle leaned forward, Quasi's pulse raced. Looking into her eyes, he saw deep pools of brown that displayed her very soul. Her lips brushed against his cheek as she gave him a gentle kiss. Time stopped. His heart came to a halt. His breath caught in his throat. As the soft skin of her mouth left the side of his face, the exact spot where they had come into contact burned and tingled. A hot blazing fire pulsated through him. A small grin crept onto his face as Belle pulled away and their eyes locked, having a private conversation of their own. She turned.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For being so kind to me. You've no idea what it means to me. I hope that you and I can become fast friends. Same time tomorrow?" she asked, feeling a strange, foreign feeling in the pit of her stomach as he grinned at her and nodded, feeling the beginnings of hope swell in her chest until she thought her heart might burst. Belle couldn't explain it, but she knew she liked the man. His kind demeanor and quiet, shy personality was infectious and pulled anyone in who happened to be nearby, always longing to learn more about him, or perhaps, it was only that way with her. Either way, she looked forward to their next meeting.

"I..." His voice faltered as his mind struggled to catch up and process what just happened. "Belle!" His name coming from her was heaven.

"Yes?" she asked, a soft, shy smile on her lips.

He smiled at her, although she couldn't see it since it was too dark, she could feel it radiating happiness. "Have a good night," he said softly. "And thank you. I'll—I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nodded, turning away, and breaking into a huge grin as she retreated slowly down the stairwell steps.

_Perhaps_ , she thought to herself, _it won't be so lonely here, after all._


	15. His Little Wife

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Gaston snorted in disbelief as he aimlessly wandered the nave of the cathedral LeFou had told him to venture to. At first, he’d thought his friend had been lying to him, but he drew in a sharp breath of cool air as he noticed that all too familiar flash of blue wander through the hallways and down a dimly lit corridor, her nose buried in one of her precious books. He scowled, knitting his brows together in quandary as he slunk through the shadows of the church like he himself was part of the shadow world.

While this was Holy Ground, he could not exactly enact upon his little wife the punishment that the hunter knew Belle Dupont deserved for daring to leave him and then have the old codger lie about it, but no could he be so cruel as to drag her out of here kicking and screaming against her will and alert the cathedral guards. If he was being honest with himself, the hunter had not anticipated anyone else to be up at this late hour of the eve, when most others were sound asleep in their beds, though his wife had never particularly been an avid or deep sleeper. And it was now that he found himself not alone on this night, and he had been surprised to run into Belle, that more lovely sight which awaited him instead of staring numbly into the bottom of an empty tankard back at the tavern.

Here she was. His wife. His beauty. His masterpiece, the gods’ masterpiece. The finest woman in all of France. His Belle. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pains of life were evident in the creasing of her lovely brow and the down curve of her full, luscious pink lips. Gaston’s fingers twitched as he curled them into a fist as he fought back the urge to reach up and trace the outline of her lips with the tips of his fingers, to see if her pristine lips were really as soft as they looked. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He did not want to make any rash judgements. He needed to be smart about this, and he needed a plan. A way to bring her home that did not attract the attention of the authorities.

Gaston tore his gaze away from the divot of her lip and upwards towards her eyes, those brilliant orbs of rich deep brown like the boughs of an oak tree after a fresh rainfall. Belle Dupont’s eyes showed her soul. They were a deep pool of restless brown, an ocean of hopeless grief. Grief, it should be noted, that Gaston himself had had a hand in planting there when he had asked for Belle’s hand, effectively taking away her freedom. Gaston swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat as he looked at the woman, that beauty with the brown locks that smelled of jasmine and lavender, even in late fall, setting his face to something that resembled a perfect impassiveness, a look that he had perfected whenever around his father. His blue eyes drifted downward towards her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap as she sat perched on a stone bench, a glum expression on her face.

As Gaston met Belle’s gaze, though he effectively remained shrouded in shadow as to avoid being detected until he wanted her to be seen, he knew, all the beauty of all of France, or even the entire world, for that matter, could not even hope to compete with this simple concept: passion. Passion turned the woman’s eyes into orbs of the brightest fire, and in them, Gaston Dupont read clearly that she would fight to the very last tear for her life if it came to that.

He sneered, his lips curling upwards into a slight sneer. _Good_. He liked his women with a light fight and feistiness to them. He hated the weak ones, of which Bell, thankfully, was not. Belle Dupont would not let the world break her. Sure, she could cry, but Dupont knew she would never let them take her true self from her. She clung to that with passion like her life depended on it. Passion that at least in Gaston’s eyes, made her beautiful and that much more frustrating for the bastard, for he felt like he did not deserve such a creature. He knew what he was. A hunter.

And this hunter was staring at his prey. His prize. His beauty. Gaston stifled a low growl from the back of his throat, careful to remain hidden by a rather large white marble pillar. She hadn’t seen him yet, and it would stay that way until such a time when he chose to reveal himself to his wife. But for now, he was just content to watch her here. He furrowed his dark brows into a frown as he looked upon his wife. Belle Dupont wasn’t beautiful in the classical way. No flowing golden curls, no piercing eyes of green like the type that he usually tended to lust after. However, in her ordinariness, she was a stunning little beauty, there was no point in Gaston trying to deny that much of his wife.

Something radiated from within Belle that rendered the noblewoman irresistible to both genders. Men desired her; women courted her friendship. _If the gods are real_ , Gaston told himself _, then this woman sitting before me is their masterpiece._ _And I…I shall be Belle’s god_. His father’s words when Gaston had approached his father with the news he had chosen a bride after many years alone resonated with Gaston’s mind, refusing to part from the man’s thoughts.

_“My son, it is beyond you to give me a compliment, because these insults lessen us both.”_ At his father’s words, Gaston furrowed his brow into a frown. If he impregnated her with a dozen strapping young boys, would that then gain acceptance and admiration in his father’s eyes? Belle Dupont had a kind of understated beauty, perhaps it was because the girl was so disarmingly unaware of her natural beauty. Her pale skin was completely flawless. She was so white, with her skin like that of whipped milk, and Gaston wondered if he were to reach out a hand to touch her, to graze the soft skin of her prominent collarbones, if he would only graze the air, as if Belle Dupont were nothing but a ghost.

The woman with the dark wavy locks like a rich chocolate that flowed freely about her face, the wind whipping it about haphazardly about her face, though she did not seem to mind, was all about simplicity, making things easy, helping those around her to relax and to be happy with what they had. Perhaps that was why the girl’s pale skin seemed to glow so, it was her inner beauty that lit those brilliant blue eyes of hers and softened her features.

When she smiled and laughed, which Gaston had yet to see for himself, though LeFou had once informed him during the early days of Gaston and Belle’s courtship that her smile was bewitching, supposedly you could not help but feel that you too were someone of great importance, that you had been warmed in summer ray’s regardless of the eternal cold that seemed to plague Paris. Belle was the kind of young beauty other women loved to hate, Gaston surmised as he watched the fair-skinned, dark-haired woman rise from her seat, brushing her palms on the skirts of her dark blue gown.

 _Blue is a good color for you, wife_ , Gaston thought, the beginnings of a twisted smile forming on his lips. It reminded him of the gown she had worn on their wedding night, the color, of course, picked out by him. Gaston Dupont had been all logic and feigned cold detachment until their fingers had touched when he’d brought Belle’s knuckles to his lips for that introductory kiss upon their first meeting when Maurice and Belle had moved to their little village, though it had taken all of his willpower not to clamp his teeth down on her fingers, to taste her blood. Though that time would come, he needed to be patient. Gaston drew in a sharp breath of cold air that pained his lungs as he looked at the fair-haired maiden that he was now married to. When he had touched her hand earlier, when he had brought her home, something foreign and unfamiliar stirred not only within him, but it overtook Gaston’s thinking. The rest of his world became an unimportant blur that was banished into the far corners of his mind. The only thing that mattered anymore was finding an excuse to keep Belle by his side. Forever. To touch her more, to taste her honey sweet sin with his own tongue.

Gaston felt his entire body stiffen as the young woman began to walk back towards the stairwell, leaving the nave and making to head up towards the uppermost level of the cathedral, towards places unknown. It was then that he began to have highly inappropriate thoughts of the luscious beauty. He wanted Belle on her back, he wanted her on top, Gaston wanted her any way that he could take his wife for himself, really. To claim her fully as his for life, and she would be _his_.

As Gaston continued having these wild thoughts of his precious little wife, he knew it was the inner beast that lay caged within the confines of his chest, threatening to come loose, given that it had been at least a fortnight since he’d hunted. No girl was she, not anymore. Her large liquid brown eyes held such an intelligence and serenity that Gaston felt like it had been impossible for him not to be held prisoner by them. Which would explain his momentarily lapse of inability to form a cohesive sentence around his precious Belle. Her cheekbones weren’t especially high, and her nose was a little too long to be perfect, but there was an undeniable symmetry to Belle Dupont’s delicate features, like that of a pretty red rose, just waiting to bloom, to fully become…a woman. Perhaps that was what had Gaston Dupont so captivated. Belle Dupont’s smooth dry skin despite the harsh currents of the ferocious autumn that threatened old man winter’s return was dotted with a light smattering of freckles about her nose. Her delicate eyebrows curved in swooping arcs over those bewitching eyes and her small button nose complemented her wide forehead and rather blunt chin. These features would not turn heads, or make anyone look twice, they were quite normal among the women in the Stark family. No…it was Belle’s eyes that were her true prize, what held Gaston Dupont, so captivated, even right now.

What secrets would he uncover, as he looked behind them? He couldn’t wait to find out. Her eyes were like the stars in the night sky, the way they drew unsuspecting men like Gaston in to explore the swirling depths of emotions held in her depths. The black of Belle’s pupil was surrounded by a ring of jagged fire. At one glance, the girl’s eyes merely shone, but if you dared to look closer like he had done so earlier, and just like he was doing now, shrouded in the shadow of the bush behind which he had taken refuge, Gaston could see the sadness of heartbreak, the joy of love (at that he scoffed again), the hope of a better future for herself, the pain of sorrow at losing not only her home but her family as well, and the fire of a spirit that even Gaston knew the girl would not give up. At least…not willingly.

She currently wore her dark hair pulled upward into a loose messy bun of sorts to keep it from getting in her way, but in Gaston’s mind, it was long and fluid down her back, lying gently over her shoulder bones, kissing her soft skin, already imagining thoughts of future bruises to impart upon her. It had been all he could do not to ravage himself at her when he’d first laid eyes upon the fair-skinned beauty with the locks of hair that reminded him of the earthen forest floor. Belle Dupont was a beautiful young girl. And after he had taken her back home, he would ensure that the girl would never leave his side again, and he would have her sire him an heir, maybe several, if he had things his way, and he always got his way in the end. Growing up, Gaston had given Father everything a son could possibly give his parent, and only wished he could do more to please. Now he had to know that the person he idolized never truly existed. That their life of the endless political council meetings, bloody wars, talk of siring heirs to keep the family lineage going was never what it appeared to be, that his father lived with festering anger in his heart like a wound. Conversations were just talk to Gaston, competitions to him. Nothing more, and nothing less. Gaston’s father saw his son suffering, his mental health in decline as young lad and he had made goddamn sure that Gaston had fallen into that pit, the only decorations in the pit his own godforsaken claw markings from his nails on the walls he could not scale.

Now Father had the gall—the audacity—to claim that his methods growing up didn’t drive his only son mad, that it was just ‘how he was,’ and there could be nothing in all of France that would cure of him of this so-called horrible affliction, this unquenchable bloodlust.

His father liked to think of himself as Gaston’s savior, but his son knew the truth. How Father cycled from abuse to reconciliation and then back to abuse, to build him up just enough for the next stress-relieving power trip take down that usually involved the flaying of a man in the dungeons. But Gaston had news for his father. His heart had long since been hardened, and the beating corded muscle within his chest had walls. He had walls against Father and any other human within the City of Lovers and there was no way to break down that wall. Knowledge can indeed be power, if you so let it, and Gaston had, in fact, let that be so.

 _You’re mine, Belle. No one else’s_ , Gaston thought and released a low growl from the back of his throat at the thought of that creature who was less than half a man taking this woman, this celestial-like being who had for reasons unknown somehow managed to snare him in a net of intrigue like one of those mystical sirens of the sea he had heard as a child growing up in the tales of old, and this had unfortunately, Belle’s ears perked up at the nose and she froze at the sound, though from which direction it had come, she could not quite tell. He would just have to make it quite plain and perfectly clear to any man with a pair of wandering eyes that Belle was no longer available.

That _she_ was _his_. And anyone who would dare try to take the dog’s prized bone from him would find themselves without their heads. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” he whisper-hissed through clenched teeth as he watched Belle resume her rather leisurely pace through the cathedral, seemingly making to head back towards whatever pathetic little room she was staying in.

His mind felt as if stone were coursing through his veins instead of blood. Gaston glanced downwards once Belle had vanished from his line of sight completely. He was half of a mind to follow his wife, to corner her in some decrepit hallway of the cathedral the smelled of dank mold and gods knew what else, and he caught sight of his reflection in a puddle of water, no doubt from someone’s boot, and blanched, looking caught off guard at the man he saw staring back at him. The shadow of the caged beast within his eyes. He felt his stomach lurch and he thought he might vomit.

There was the smallest fraction of Gaston’s mind that knew what he was and hated it. Disgust. Yes, that’s what he felt for himself. Disgust. Total disgust with himself, at who he really was, what he represented. Gaston felt his shoulders slump and his blue eyes cast downward in a mournful gaze, his handsome face held a forlorn, worn expression now.

His mouth was set in a semi-pout as he remained alone in the nave of Notre Dame, fighting against his urge to follow Belle. It would be easy enough to claim her for himself once more. A few sweet words whispered into the ear of his little lady wife and he would slip her out of her gown and let it fall to a crumpled heap on the floor and he would have her.

But…and this was the part he was struggling to accept the most, that he had seen something in Belle’s eyes that could only be described as hatred. A look that he had not seen in a woman before. At least, not directed towards him. Most of the whores and strumpets in Paris were absolutely terrified of the esteemed hunter and war lord, and it showed in their eyes, their movements, how they averted their gazes whenever they were forced to be in the same room as Gaston.

 _But not this little dove_ , his conscience offered unhelpfully. _There had been that look back home earlier this week._

Belle had been rumored to be quite the beautiful girl but seeing her up close and personal like this once again only reinforced that truth in Gaston’s mind. The woman was of fair complexion, long wisps of brown hair that always seem to gleam when they captured the light just right, like her hair had been set ablaze. She had the kindest pair of brilliant dark brown eyes, trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Lovely eyes, innocent and pure, yet somehow gentle, that always held a tiny warmth within them, of which Gaston knew he wanted it for himself. If it could be made possible to bottle that warmth and hoard it within a glass vial that he could keep in his pocket, then he would do it. Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted pink, luscious lips, as if crafted by angels and the gods themselves.

Standing this close to her as he had been only moments ago, he could see Belle’s lips clearly, glistening attractively with a light salve coating that added a further sheen to her already healthy lips. Gaston imagined biting her mouth until he drew blood and then sucking it from the wound.

All these features sat together on a delicate almost angelic face.

And Belle Dupont would be all _his_ once he managed to get her back home where she belonged.

Because he was her husband, and she his little wife.

Oh, such sweet, sweet bliss…


	16. Another New Friend

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

The inventor’s daughter furrowed her dark brows into a frown as her scowl deepened as she stared after the spot where, only moments before, she could have sworn that her husband had lurked behind one of the cathedral’s marble pillars and was watching her from the shadows. Belle could not seem to shake the feeling that Gaston Dupont had somehow managed to learn of the truth already, and had made his way to the magnificent cathedral, and was now doing what Gaston did best: watching. Watching her in silence, and this uncomfortable sensation was what had prompted the inventor’s daughter to quickly ascend the stairwell towards the second level of the cathedral, though she knew she did not wish to return to the bell ringer’s towers, for the hour was late, judging by the stars in the night sky, and she did not wish to wake the man.

“Quasimodo. You are an…unusual man. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, my friend. I look forward to spending more time with you as my days here pass,” she whispered, letting the unusual man’s name roll off her tongue, hardly aware that she was smiling. She heaved a heavy sigh and clutched the sole book from her small collection that she had managed to pack away in her satchel on the night she left Gaston’s home. It was a tragedy, of course, but admittedly, one of her favorites.

An old leather-bound copy of the story of _Tristan and Iseult_ , a classic. Belle let out a tiny squeak as the sound of shuffling footsteps rendered her attention upward and drew it away from her book, for which she felt momentarily annoyed, but upon seeing it was just the priest, Father Darius, she felt the edges of her lips curl upwards into a genuine smile as she exhaled a shaking breath of relief at seeing him.

“You cannot sleep either?” The handsome priest asked her kindly, and without waiting for the painter and inventor’s daughter to respond, he broke into a kind white smile and, grunting with the effort, quickly sat down next to her. It did not escape Belle’s attention that the handsome dark-haired man walked with a permanent limp in his right leg. No doubt the result of a gruesome war injury, if what the brief mention of the father’s past that the Archdeacon of Notre Dame had relayed to Belle was true during her first night within the cathedral.

“No.” Her voice escaped her lips as a soft murmur, and she felt as though her words were wind, to be carried away on the breeze.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” Father Darius asked, quirking a thick dark brow the girl’s way in quandary. She watched as the man bit the inside of his cheek and his handsome face contorted into a slight frown, "I don't want you wandering Notre Dame alone anymore, least of all during the night. If you can't sleep, come get me please, I'm more than happy to keep you company. I don't sleep much anyway. Or—or get Quasi," he said wildly. "He'll protect you, too."

But to his immense disappointment, Belle shook her head. "I can't ask that of Quasi, Darius. I—I only just really truly met him tonight."

"You don't know him well enough yet," he responded softly. "He'd go with you if you asked him to. I know he would. Next time, if I'm not available, ask him. Please. It would put my mind at ease."

"I can't, Darius, I'm sorry," she apologized quietly, wincing slightly at the pain in her feet as she stood up and pulled up a spare chair to sit beside him. "May I join you? I can't sleep."

"Of course," he nodded. "Sit with me, keep me company if you can't sleep," he replied. Desperate to change the subject to something more pleasant, he decided to broach the subject of her visit to their church’s bell ringer. "How was your visit this evening? Better than the other night, I hope?" Darius did his best to ignore that when she moved into the light, the warm glow from the candles he'd set up illuminated her silhouette, giving her an angelic appearance. Her skin was practically flawless, pale, and perfect. The girl's dress was perfect for her slender, petite frame. The sleeves of her chemise fell off her shoulders, revealing her prominent collarbones and graceful shoulders. Darius knew he was staring, but he didn't care.

"Better this time," she replied shyly. "He wants to see me again tomorrow," she said excitedly. "He accepted my apology. You were right, Darius."

 _Excellent. Perhaps there's hope for both of them, yet_ , the priest thought. _God works in mysterious ways. Perhaps He has a plan for these two. I can only hope the best for my brother, he deserves this_. "You've no idea how happy I am to hear that, Belle, truly. It's been too long since he's had a true friend, other than myself, of course. I'm glad you two are on the fast track to becoming… _friends_ ," he finished, noticing how her eyes turned to stardust. _There's something more brewing between these two. I just know there is_ , he mused, chuckling quietly.

He furrowed his brow and frowned, his smile faltering as he assessed her nervous demeanor. _Something isn't adding up. I know there's something she isn't telling me. First, I catch her out here by herself when she ought not to be roaming the halls of the cathedral alone, she isn't sleeping—just look at the circles under her eyes—and now, her feet! What's going on, sweetheart? You know you can talk to me._

Belle, as intuitive as she was, had noticed he was looking especially troubled, his blue eyes frozen over numbly as he stared. "Father?" she asked timidly, wringing her hands together painfully, but she ignored it. "May I speak?"

"What is it, love?" Darius let out a haggard sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"How well do you know the bell ringer? I—he seems different. Not in a bad way, but I—I can't put my finger on it. It feels like…like I've known him all my life and tonight, I only spent an hour with him. Does he always have that effect on everyone, or is it just me?" she asked, smiling shyly at Darius.

Darius smiled. "I've known Quasi for years. He is in many ways like a younger brother to me. I have no other family in my life, so we try to connect every week. He's a wonderful chess player," he mused.

"He's very kind. Gentle and sweet," she said.

"Yes. Yes, he is," he replied, grinning. It's going even better than I'd hoped. I'll have to tell Alice and Jeanne in the morning, but something tells me they already know somehow. I'd bet my life those two were eavesdropping on them earlier this evening.

"I…in my life ever since I married, I've only ever known cruelty at the hands of my own husband. My father, God bless that man, is the only one who was ever kind to me," she began, a faraway look in her eyes as she remembered an unpleasant memory from her past. "It's nice to be surrounded by people who are kind to me and ask nothing of me in return. People I can dare to call my friends," she responded, folding her hands in her lap, and looking at a spot on the wall behind Darius's head, averting his gaze. "I can't go back to where I came from. I can't. I won't. Notre Dame is my home now," she said quietly, turning to Darius, who was doing his best to remain stoic. But her words pierced his heart like a dagger. She continued. "I do not know how much you have heard of me or of my family, but…I am a Dupont,” she sighed. “My—my husband is a former war hero and now hunts and manages a tavern to make ends meet. His name is Gaston.”

"He was wrong to treat you so horribly, to cause you to flee from him and come here," Darius responded quietly. "I..." he started to say, but he couldn't finish his thought. He was drawn to her eyes. Beautiful, flashing like the cold of the finest steel, dangerous.

"Father, whatever is troubling you, do you want to discuss it? I have the time if you do," she said, studying his face carefully for any signs of trouble.

Amazed by her kindness, he looked over at Belle, his eyes brimming with sadness. The girl's lips, a soft pink, were full and luscious. He briefly wondered what it would like to run his finger along the outline of her lips, and if they were as soft as he imagined them to be. Darius was a bit disturbed by his sudden desire to kiss her.

 _Such thoughts are inappropriate_ , he scolded himself. _But I can't help that you remind me so much of my Hanna_ , he thought. For a brief moment, he wondered if he were developing feelings for the petite brunette. He was certainly fond of her. She hadn't been with them long, only a few days, and already, the priest found his mind drifting to thoughts of her more often than he'd care to admit to anyone. _Least of all Alice and Jeanne_ , he thought darkly. He wasn't in love with Belle. He couldn't be…could he be? N _o. Don't think like that, it'll never happen. She was never yours, from the moment she came here. And you've your vows to think about._

Darius shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned his attention back to the brunette. "Were that I could, my child, were that I could…" he began, for the details of his past was not a subject that he broached, and to whom he told, was of even greater importance. _How do I phrase this? What can I tell you?_ _Forgive me, God, for I know not what I do._ "Being a priest is very difficult at times. I do not know if the Archdeacon informed you of my…of how I came to be here, but it is not a subject I wish to discuss at this time," he said contemplatively, careful not to let his word choice or emotions betray what he was really thinking, and he watched as Belle’s face fell and became crestfallen. "There is much that I am told in confidence that I cannot discuss with others, even though, sometimes, I feel it's necessary, especially if a person's life is in danger."

He glanced over at Belle and saw that her face had drained of color and she looked to be in shock. “Your husband cannot touch you in here, mademoiselle. I hope you can understand," he apologized, desperately wishing he could tell her of the man from earlier, that he could take her away from here and shelter her from the man who'd seek to do her harm. He didn't think he could stand if something happened to her. “And…should you ever feel threatened in any way whilst you are here, I hope you will come to me for help.”

Belle nodded, although she couldn't shake the feeling there was something else, something Darius wasn't telling her. "I understand, but…that doesn't explain why you're out here," she chirped, as she glanced down at the chair and the book in his lap.

"I know how hard it is," he began, meeting her eyes with his. He could get lost in her eyes if she'd let him. "Being on your own, I mean," he clarified. "I know what it's like to be alone in the world with no one to turn to. But I don't want that for you, Belle. Never. If there's ever anything you need, you come to me, you understand? I must admit," he confessed, feeling his face grow hot as he looked down at the book in his lap, "this is one of the few places in the cathedral I can escape to in order to let myself truly be at peace. I hope I won't disturb you by being this close." _That's a bald-faced lie_ , his conscience chirped. Y _ou can't stand to be away from this girl. You love her and hate that she reminds you so of Hanna. It's not healthy, what you're doing to yourself, but you can't stay away. How easy it would be to seduce her, take her somewhere away from Notre Dame, claim Belle for yourself. Quasi can't give her a life as you could_.

Irritated, the young priest shook his head to clear away his dark, brooding thoughts. So long had he repressed his voices, which had taunted him ever since the death of his wife and child. "I can relocate if it'll cause you trouble," he said, at last, noticing her quizzical stare.

To his relief, the inventor’s smiled and shook her head, a lock of dark wavy hair tumbling in front of her face as she did so, though with one swift movement, it was out of her way. "No, it won't be any trouble. I could use the company in the evenings if I'm being honest with myself," she admitted sheepishly, reaching up to scratch at an itch on her scalp. "I…" her gaze dropped to the book Darius was holding. "Oh, what are you reading, if I may ask?" she asked, suddenly intrigued, craning her neck to see it better. "It's been so long since I've had time to read an entire book, I miss it. I imagine you stay quite busy during the day, so I could see you being a night reader, Father," she teased.

Darius grinned and held up his book. If his mind weren't so distracted by thoughts of Belle and doing what he could to keep her safe, he might have enjoyed his choice a little bit more. " _Tristan and Iseult_ ," he said, enjoying watching how her eyes lit up as she recognized it. "A tragedy, but one of my favorites. I confess myself fond of the tragic romances, I'm afraid."

"It's one of my favorites, too." A light pink blush speckling along her cheeks, Belle wordlessly held up her own copy of the book.

"'Neither you without me, nor me without you,'" he quoted, staring transfixed as her eyes turned to stardust as she stared off into space for a moment, losing herself in imagining the story.

"It's a beautiful story," she whispered. "You have excellent taste in literature, Darius," she said quietly, and he was pleasantly surprised at hearing at how nice his name sounded, coming from her.

"Yes, it is," he answered, amazed at how easily the conversation flowed when he was with her. _You're like no one else I've ever met_. Belle was truly remarkable. She carried herself with such grace, her father had presumably taught her to read and write, so he knew she was well versed and educated. She knew and was fond of the great literary works, and she was beautiful. And how much like Hanna she looked. The same face, the same eyes. Darius was taken aback when the young brunette leaned forward suddenly and gently kissed him on the cheek, her kiss gentle and lingering. When she pulled away, where her lips had been burned.

"I wanted to say thank you," she whispered, a shy smile forming on her lips. "For everything."

"I…what for?" he asked, confused.

"You've been so kind to me, Darius, ever since I got here. You've shown me kindness when so few have. Thank you."

"It's been my pleasure, love," he replied.

"You've become a true friend to me in such a short time span, at a time in my life when there are so few that I can truly trust completely, and I appreciate all that you do for me. I hope that we can continue to get to know each other better, Darius."

Clearing his throat to get over his initial shock at the kiss she'd given, Darius flashed a charming smile at her as she stood up from her chair, finally preparing to turn in for the night. "Of course. I'd like that. I enjoy your company too, love."

Belle smiled, a teasing gleam in her gray eyes. "Goodnight, then, Father Darius," she said.

To that, he had no response. He could only shrug as she turned away, leaving him with vast loneliness and emptiness in his heart once again.

Unable to resist, he called after her. "Belle!"

She froze with a hand on the doorknob to her quarters. It wasn't often Darius called her by her nickname. Something about his tone gave her pause. "Father Darius," she said, frowning as she noticed how tired the man looked. "Be careful. I don't know what's about to happen, but I—I don't want to lose you as a friend," she said quietly. "Be safe. Promise me that you'll be careful."

Darius nodded. "The same goes for you too, my dear. If that—that man comes to see you again, come get me immediately. He won't be coming near you again, Belle. I can promise it. Come to me."

Saying nothing more, the brunette nodded grimly and closed the door. Darius was aware of the sullen expression on his face, but he couldn't bring himself to relax. He crossed his arms and sulked as he tried to determine what to do about the fact that their newest refugee claiming sanctuary suffered from an abusive man, one who did not seem like he would be satisfied until he got what he wanted, and his leg began tapping, he was restless.

If anything, the knowledge that he was armed with made him more attentive to the fact that Belle, and now perhaps their bell ringer—would need to be watched. _Carefully_. It did not sit well with Darius that there was a strong possibility that this man, this Gaston fellow, would come after her, if he were the type of brute that he suspected the girl’s husband to be. The priest had heard the disgust in the woman’s tone, how she reviled the man. Darius would not put it past this Gaston to potentially try something foolish if the girl were to leave her sanctuary.

He'd need someone he trusted to keep an eye on the two of them if they chose to venture outside Notre Dame at any point in the near future. Of course, he couldn't be the one, he would need to get someone else, but whose help could he enlist for a job like this? _There's no telling what that man will do to them, especially her_ , he thought darkly, not bothering to stop his spew of dark thoughts that filtered through his brain. The thought of harm coming to either one of them, well, he didn't like to think about it.

Such thoughts of her coming into that man's path—whoever he was—filled him with an intense rage. It was like a vexing of the soul for what he felt was not human, it was twisted and distorted, but it was something strong. It burned like fire lacing his veins and creeping up the priest's spine.

All Darius could feel was desire. Desire to hate the man who had driven the young woman away and threatened Belle’s life. He was intoxicated with emotion he had no intention of ever feeling, the acidity of it was residing in his stomach waiting to be spat out of his mouth in foul and vulgar words Darius would be stared at for saying, except he wasn't going to say them. The priest was going to shout them with every ounce of breath that dwelled in his powerful lungs.

Before he could, however, it hit him "Clopin!" he whispered, careful to keep his voice low so as to not disturb Belle.

Of course! How did he not think of it before? The gypsy king was perfect for this. There was no one better. Clopin had eyes and ears everywhere, whispering spies who reported back to him, the spider in the marketplace, and the unfortunate victims of whoever his targets happened to be got caught in his web. If anyone could arrange to keep an eye out for the brute that had threatened Belle in addition to helping to keep an eye on those two, it would be him. Clopin also owed Darius a debt, so there was no doubt in the priest's mind he would be eager to finally repay it after all these years. Unable to sit still any longer, Darius fled from his self-appointed post outside the girl's quarters and hurried to send a message.

Perhaps for the first time in history, Darius needed the gypsy king's help and it couldn't wait until the morning.


	17. With the Prince

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Paris was not admittedly a city that was for the faint hearted. The King, Judge Claude Frollo knew, tended to avoid the sordid place at any cost, deeming a visit to the city necessary only if the situation presented itself, and given the circumstances and the nature of things, the Minister of Justice deemed this matter of great importance, hence why he was regarding his distinguished guest of honor currently seated opposite him from the other side of Claude's desk, surveying the judge with a look of sardonic amusement in his listless blue eyes over the rim of his goblet.

Something about the girl's surname had bothered Judge Frollo upon his visit to the boy's bell towers the other day, and the Judge had taken it upon himself to do a little investigating upon his return to his study in the Palace of Justice.

The girl had been right in that he was quite familiar with the family name of Dupont, an aristocratic family that went back quite a few generations. The Dupont men came from a line of viscounts, Dukes, and lords. So how a young woman married to a former war hero wound up within the sanctuary of Notre Dame was beyond him, and it was through his scrolling of several pieces of parchment that he found a letter that one his men had intercepted once.

What was even _worse_ , the Judge supposed, was how the defiant way the strange brunette had looked upon the judge with a look of scorn, and hers was not one of fear. It had been those bewitching umber eyes of hers, and it was then that he knew the prickly little girl would not heed his words of sage advice to stay away, and she was going to become a problem not only for him, but for Quasimodo as well.

He could not— _would not_ —allow the boy's heart and mind to be corrupted by temptations of the flesh, for he had worked too hard and much too long to quell those desires within his son so that he could live a good life in the church. He could not understand it, why this girl was getting under his skin so, and this led him to receive virtually no sleep that night, and now, here he was. In his sleeplessness, Claude Frollo was drunk on silence.

For hours, it had seeped into his pores, dowsing his mind in its thick toxicity. The usefulness of his thoughts left the judge long ago, leaving these fatigued thoughts and hallucinations of the girl lingering in his mind. The Judge wanted so very much not to think at all, wanting instead to be absorbed into the darkness that the night had promised him mere hours ago.

Claude wanted to wake, refreshed to streaming white daylight, unaware of the hours between now and then.

Nevertheless, what he wanted was for naught, and the idiocy continued to get worse as he now found himself staring at the Prince, lord of these lands. And personal friend to Gaston Dupont, the girl's husband, hence why the judge had called him here.

Some say that Prince Adam had been born on a starlit night, amid the warmth of late summer. Those who knew him say that it became part of him, why his hair, currently pulled back in a low ponytail was of a rich golden hue. For a moment, the Judge stared, transfixed at the man's hair, how the prince's hair brought to Claude's mind memories of golden wheat fields, of those many hued storms that danced in the autumn light, whispering gentle songs into the soft breeze.

The Prince's voice had a slowness, as if the man had all the time in the world to talk with the Judge, as if he really mattered to him. The Judge supposed he ought to feel flattered, though in actuality, it was just business. The Prince seated across from him to some extent feared his subjects.

It was his belief that the revolting peasants would soon revolt if they were not given more to worry over. Yet one thing to worry over would never do, never really be effective enough, they needed many! And so, he made it the fashion for them to be thinner than was natural, so that their own bodies would be their enemy day and night. The Prince of these lands saw to it that poorer peasants were driven from their homes in the countryside to compete in Paris for the most basic of wages and sustenance, and the Prince was pleased. But…

From time to time the peasants would start to unite and find peace, the gentle natures of the meek arising, and then their Prince would bring upon them a disaster that he, their monarch, could not be blamed for. The fear of an overseas enemy or group was always a risk, and he wielded "patriotism" like a blunt club. Upon that cold gilded throne, he laughed in the cold way cold people do.

The "little-folk" would always need a personal battle such as their own vanity, an enemy within the town such as competing with each other for survival, and the fear of an external enemy, one they assumed they needed their prince to fend off. Judge Frollo scoffed and resisted to roll his eyes at the young arrogant prince currently seated across from him.

Yet in all that nobility, that restless spirit was one of a warrior's heart, one who would make any sacrifice if it benefited him, to guard what he treasured, pay any price that was necessary, and Claude would benefit too. Assuming, of course, the nobleman agreed to the Judge's terms and conditions, of which he knew he would.

The Prince coughed once to clear his throat, and the Judge blinked, startled out of his musings. "I am…surprised, Your Honor, that you kept our appointment," the Prince began hesitantly, his voice sounding gruffer and coarser than in times previous whenever the judge had corresponded with the Prince.

The Prince was sounding amused, and such suspicion was confirmed when the nobleman smirked over the rim of his goblet, before raising the rim of his cup to his lips and drank heavily. Claude furrowed his brows into a confused frown and scowled, not at all amused.

Royalty or not, how _dare_ this man think the Judge was not a man of his word? He was, after all, a man of his word as a law-abiding citizen and upheld the law to the highest degree, himself being the prime example. Claude smiled, albeit without showing the Prince his teeth, before reaching across his desk for the tin flagon of wine and pouring himself a goblet. Normally, he did not drink whilst working, however, this particular little meeting called for alcohol, the strongest wine that he possessed.

"What business could the refined Judge Claude Frollo have with the likes of me? What can I do for you this evening, Your Honor? Is this about the taxation?" drawled the Prince lazily as he folded his surprisingly gentle and soft hands that looked as though Prince Adam had not done a day's work in his life, and the Judge knew that he had not, on the table, revealing a ruby and emerald ring resting on two of his fingers on his right hand.

The Judge gazed at the Prince, and even after all this time of suffering the egotistical man's company during his routine yearly visits to Paris, the boiling within his blood still ensued and ran through his veins, though not quite as potent as years prior. Tonight, the Prince looked especially regal, fully dressed in a black leather overcoat that ran down to past his knees, a long-sleeved crimson red undershirt within. His black boots shone even in the dim light of the study.

"You are the stronghold of your name, Your Highness," the Judge complimented. He snorted as he could practically feel the Prince blink and stun at his compliments, though he suspected the noble was quite used to flattery, for he hid his surprise well and perfected a look of impassive indifference. "You and your progeny will reign for a thousand years, or so I am told. Assuming you can find yourself a lovely little bride to marry, sire." Frollo watched as the Prince's face blanched and became devoid of color, though the man made no comment. "Fear not, Your Majesty, for I believe I have found you a noblewoman of the highest pedigree, however, there is but one minor snag, Adam…"

But the Prince raised up a hand to stop the Judge from completing his sentence, and were this any other man save for His Majesty the King, such a gesture would have resulted in imprisonment, but because it was the Prince of these surrounding lands, he let it go. "There are…always problems when it comes to women, Your Honor, but I must confess that I am a man who enjoys pretty faces, and if the rumors of this little mouse in question are true, then I should be delighted for an opportunity to meet my future princess," he chuckled darkly, his blue eyes glinting like pinpricks, which for a moment, made the Judge feel greatly uncomfortable.

"Indeed," murmured Claude through gritted teeth as his inquisitive gray eyes carefully surveyed the Prince as he shifted his own goblet of wine in his hands. "I have not yet spoken to my…my ward, however, it is evident that this Belle Dupont is bewitching him somehow, though if rumors are her beauty are to be believed, it is said that prior to the girl marrying Lord Gavin's son, Gaston, that the father had married some wretched heathen witch, a—a sorceress, if you will," scoffed Judge Frollo as he rolled his gray eyes.

The Prince felt his brows knit together in quandary as he slammed down his cup onto the judge's desk. "You do not believe them?"

"Such talk," growled the Judge, waving away the Prince's question with a dismissive wave of his withered hand, "is nothing but slander, and I will not breathe further life into vicious stupid peasant lies." He scoffed and laced his fingers together, folding his arms across his chest and resting his back against the rest of his armchair. "Your Majesty, you have been at that goblet of wine since upon entering my chambers, and it is as though like the goblet itself had its lips against yours. You are troubled, Your Majesty. Do not lie to me, monsieur."

The Prince's frown deepened, as did the lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead, and he tossed his blond ponytail over his shoulders and huffed in frustration. "Your warning that you gave this girl who's a thorn in your side, as you put it to me in your letter when you summoned me here to meet with you, did not exactly go according to your plan, for my friend's wife has not exactly heeded your words."

It was a moment before the Prince spoke again, and in Adam's arrogant triumph, he smirked. Just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of his brilliant cobalt blue eyes, and a tilting of his chiseled head. It was so subtle, yet so effective.

It was even more infuriating for Judge Frollo, who caught a glimpse of it after making the foolish mistake of trusting this Prince.

"What kind of woman would seek the company of a hideous malformed wretch such as your ward, when she could easily have the company of someone such as myself. What in seven hells does the girl see in a monster such as that? It is beyond my ability to comprehend," growled the Prince, the briefest flickers of rage darting through Adam's eyes, that startled Frollo, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Frollo heaved a haggard sigh, wearily rubbing his temples. By God, he was getting a splitting migraine and wished nothing more than for this little rendezvous of theirs to be over, but they had yet to get to the heart of the matter of their urgent conversation here.

"A witch," the Judge answered simply, in a tone that was almost matter-of-factly. "I cannot prove it, but I believe the girl to have within her gypsy blood. It is the only explanation I can think of. That entire family on the girl's father's side is touched, and the only reason the girl is still alive aside from claiming sanctuary is because the Dupont family is of considerable wealth and influence in our great city, Your Highness. How the girl came to claim sanctuary within the walls of Notre Dame, it is beyond me, but nevertheless, she cannot remain in the cathedral, for her poisonous mind is affecting my ward's judgement. I have warned him, and he does not listen." He spat this last part of his sentence as though it were poison that had settled upon his tongue. "I regret that the child did not heed my advice and take my words seriously to heart, for if she had, I could have helped her. However, that time has passed. She has run away."

"From Gaston. So, you have told me," the Prince retorted with no warmth in his tone and a listlessness in the man's haunting blue eyes. It was not a question, coming from the Prince. The Judge had suspected that the nobleman would have been surprised by this little revelation, but as he looked across his desk at the proud figure seated in his chair with one leg folded over the other, an almost bored look upon his handsome face, he knew he wasn't.

"This does not surprise you?" Claude found himself asking, quirking a brow the Prince's way as he reached for the flagon and poured himself a fresh goblet of wine.

"No." The Prince solemnly shook his head. "Dupont and I played together as young boys. Even as a child, he was always quite cruel, finding new ways to torture the animals. Play with the food before eating it, so to speak." The noble crinkled his nose in disgust and pulled a face. "When he came of age around sixteen, Gaston's family fell from status when the father's love of gambling and his debts caught up to him, and I have not spoken to the man since, nor did I attend his wedding. To hear you say that you believe his wife ran from him due to mistreatment, sadly to say, Your Grace, does not at all surprise me. I am, however, quite surprised and frankly appalled that your misshapen wretch of a ward would take an interest in such a delectable creature."

The Judge nodded grimly. How had it ever come to this? God had tested him, put Quasimodo in his care to raise as his own, teach him at his knee when he was younger. He was supposed to love the boy, but it all vanished like bursting suds of water the day that Quasimodo had dared to speak up against his orders and disobey by attending the Festival of Fools, and in return, making a mockery of himself on the pillory and Frollo.

He supposed, in some way, that his world had crashed to a halt and he had felt that sudden shift within himself the day he learned that the gypsies had killed his brother Jehan, and left his body to rot at the bottom of the River Seine, having looted the drunken man's pockets while he was passed out, and threw him into the river, where his lungs filled with murky water, and he drowned. Frollo found himself in quandary, confused as to whether or not he truly cared for Quasimodo or not.

He needed the boy to serve a purpose, to be of use to him, yes, that much was true, but he reviled and detested the wretched thing just as much as he needed him.

"Regardless, this insufferable and inexcusable behavior of continuing to allow the girl to cavort about the boy's towers freely must be stopped. This cannot continue, Your Majesty, and this is where I seek your help."

The Prince grinned, flashing a charmingly white smile that for a moment, rendered the Judge's blood to ice in his veins, for it was a predatory smile, almost animalistic, and the shadow of a wolf darted across his features.

"It almost sounds as if you are about to get to the point," the Prince drawled lazily, swiveling his head slightly to better look the Judge in his eyes, taking note of the darkening, almost purple bags under his eyes.

"Things are difficult with this child," Claude snapped as he glowered at the handsome blue-eyed Prince across the way. "She is not so easily swayed by mere threats, which is why I believe that a softer approach, a more delicate touch, is required, hence why I have called you here because I know of your current little problem regarding an affianced."

The Prince's forehead became heavily lined as he scowled, his lips pursing into a thin, rigid line.

"Father shortly before his passing was of the belief that I will not inherit what remains of my family's fortune or the estate until I marry."

Judge Frollo nodded, lifting the rim of his goblet to his thin lips and drank. "I deduced as much that that was your case, Your Highness," he surmised slowly, lost in thought for a moment before setting the cup down. "It matters not that she married a monster, but I cannot—will not," he quickly corrected himself, "allow my son to become corrupted in this manner. The girl, this Belle, she can longer be around my son, Your Majesty. When I first found that foundling child on the steps of Notre Dame many years ago, I wanted nothing more than to take the cursed demon into the sea and let the waves carry him away forever and drown him, sending him back to Hell where he belongs, and releasing me of the stain and the boys' parents wickedness. However, out of the goodness of my heart, something within me that day compelled me to take the boy in, and I raised him as my own. My… _son_ is an ill-made wretch, an accursed thing, full of envy and low cunning. To teach me humility, God Himself had condemned me to watch over the boy as he grew into adulthood, but no amount of God fearing from Our Lord Himself or our king's laws will ever compel me to let that monster breed, sire."

Prince Adam merely stared across the desk at the Judge coldly, his calculating mind working quickly to put together the pieces of information in his mind, to no doubt arrive at the conclusion that Claude was about to reach.

The Judge, sensing the Prince's mind going into overdrive, continued, lest the noble need further motivation to carry out his plan.

"I am certain it will not be a challenge for you, for the ladies at court tend to flock to you, do they not?" he snorted, shaking his head in slight disbelief. The Prince opened his mouth to retort, but the Judge interjected before the Prince could say his piece. "I do not care how it happens, or what becomes of her husband. If you think Gaston Dupont will be a problem for you, then you may kill him if you wish. Whisper sweet nothings into the girl's ear, seduce her with the promises you don't intend to keep, riches, jewels, whatever it is that would drive the girl away from the cathedral and out of my ward's life. Forever. Do with the girl whatever you like once she is widowed. Marry the girl, make her a princess, impregnate her with your offspring, it matters not. The girl is nothing but a constant thorn in my _and_ my son's lives, Adam."

"And you? What of you?" The Prince could not help but to ask, as sensing the judge's growing tiredness, that their conversation was nearing its conclusion, as he rose to his feet and fastened his cloak about his shoulders, preparing to leave.

"What I am proposing is no easy feat, Prince," snarled the Judge, ignoring the Prince's question, thinking the Prince needed to mind his own business, instead striding up from behind his desk and coming over to the nobleman, extending his hand for Prince Adam to take and shake it in agreement. The Prince hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second and took his hand.

The Prince's cold blue eyes met the Judge's steely gray orbs. "This 'little problem' as you like to call it, shall be dealt with, Your grace. The girl will trouble your ward no longer, Your Honor. I can promise you this."

Judge Frollo nodded, wearily rubbing his temples in exasperation as he escorted his guest towards the door to see him out. The Prince dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Until we meet again, Your Grace…"

Something about the man's tone prompted the Judge to ask of the young handsome Prince a final question.

"What of Gaston, Your Highness?" Claude asked Adam curiously. "What of your…old childhood friend?"

The Prince frowned and fixed the Judge with a glacier-cold stare. "Gaston is no longer a friend to me, Your Honor. Much has transpired between the two of us to ever rekindle what once we had, and to hear of him treat this creature this way that he so clearly does not deserve is most despicable. Gaston may be a hunter, but he never learned how to watch his back, which is a disadvantage for him, for he should soon have a knife there."

And with that, the nobleman departed, leaving the Judge to mull over what his future held and what his next steps should be. He decided that he no longer gave a damn, as long as the deed in question was done.

He should have killed his ward years ago when he'd had the chance and save himself this unnecessary strife. And now, this girl was interfering in the bell ringer's life, implanting in the wretch's mind thoughts of sin and lust, and dare he even think this next part, desires of marriage and siring a bastard child.

Claude shuddered in revolt as a tremor went down his spine. No. He could not allow that to happen.

It was not in God's plan for the boy, nor for Claude to allow this to occur. He, or should he say, the Prince, would put an end to things before they escalated even further. And as for the girl, well…if the Prince had his way with her, then Claude took that to assume that her days within the stone walls of the cathedral were as good as numbered.

Her time and her claim to sanctuary was almost up.


	18. A Moment Interrupted

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

The inventor's daughter could not quite believe how at peace she felt here in the cathedral, measuring the start of each morning in Notre Dame de Paris by the rising sun and the dew-covered grass. A faint wind brushed against the grass's surface, the wind ruffling the stillness of the surface, cold during the mornings, but Belle loved the breeze and could not get enough.

_So long have I been a prisoner as Gaston's 'little wife_ ,' Belle though, letting out a tired sigh. _Not only inside my own mind, but physically as well. Gaston would never let me go outside, and now that I'm free of that boorish oaf, I cannot seem to get enough of the world. The sun, the trees. All of it is beautiful. It pains me to see the people of Paris take the world for granted_.

Belle still had a few minutes before one of the nuns, Sister Alice, or her twin sister, Jeanne, would come looking for her, no doubt so that she could help the pair of women in the kitchens., so she had stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, with just enough time to watch the sunrise, bathing in its warmth.

Despite the fact that this particularly morning in early October was undeniably frigid, she'd dressed for her day's chores in a simple light French blue teal floor-length dress with short capped sleeves, and over top her dress she wore a brown corset, her dark brown hair piled loose into a messy bun and tied with a simple brown headscarf to keep her hair in place.

Belle let out a content sigh and rested her head in her hands. Though it was still dark outside, she found it quite peaceful. Unaware of her own heart beating or the steady rise and fall of her chest, the inventor's daughter drifted into a state of semi-consciousness and felt a soft smile tug at the corners of her mouth as she reflected back on the last few evenings spent in the bell ringer's towers, spending at least an hour with the man every night, getting to know him better as a person, learning to see the man behind the deformities and what he had to offer this world, which was more than most gave him credit for.

He'd shown her his precious iron bells, and even rang them for her last night, and she was amazed at how many there were, how many different colors of sound, so many changing of moods they had. He claimed that sometimes, they did not want to ring for them as well as they ought, and that it took coaxing from him, almost as if he was their father, of sorts.

She thought it was sweet, how much Quasi cared. How she had hated to leave him last night, for she had introduced him to her favorite book, _Tristan and Iseult_ , and had begun to read to him the first few passages, but she looked forward to seeing him again.

Belle knitted her brows together in quandary as she mulled over that first time she'd gone up to his tower following her little 'conversation' with the Judge, if she could even call it that. _More of a warning for me to stay away_ , she thought, and stifled an angry low growl at the back of her throat. Belle had already decided not to heed the old man's words, for who was he to tell who whom she could visit and not see? At the thought of the bell ringer, she let out a tiny sigh and her frown deepened slightly.

Her mind drifted to that moment when she'd first ventured up into his tower, where he'd saved her from falling. Her skin still felt like it burned from where he had touched her and created an uncomfortable pit that had begun to form deep within her stomach, and her throat suddenly felt parched, causing Belle to wish that she had some water. Her heart was beating so erratically in her chest so hard she thought it might burst out.

The feeling was new, foreign to her, for she had not experienced this feeling during her courtship to Gaston.

She had butterflies in her heart, no, lions in her chest, that was a better description, but she did not deny that it felt good. Hearing his soft, melodious voice that carried a tenor-like quality made her stomach flutter.

Seeing him, despite his unusual and somewhat grotesque appearance made her draw in breaths that hurt and she would sometimes forget to breathe. The nun's words during supper last night rang in her eardrums.

_That boy likes you_ ; Sister Alice had told her over a glass of red wine following a simple meager soup and bread. _And you're more the fool not to pursue. I don't care if you are still married or widowed, it matters not_.

Belle remembered being so caught off guard by the nun's remark that she had no time to form an apt response. While she could not deny her friendship with Quasimodo was growing increasingly warm, there was the cautionary side of her mind that was warning her to stay away from the man, that she could not act on these strange feelings, whatever they were to her, while she was still married to Gaston, for such was a sin.

And yet, she could not help the wandering of her thoughts. When she drew in breath, it was painful, but she did not care. _And his eyes_ , she thought, unaware that her dark brown eyes were glistening, stardust dwelling within, _I've never seen blue eyes like his before. They tell an entire story, just by looking at them. By God…_

Whenever their eyes met and he would look at her, the bell ringer's eyes tended to burn hers like she'd been staring at the sun for too long, but then Belle Dupont would be pulled into his inquisitive gaze and unable to look away, and nor did she want to, for that matter. When he smiled at her, it made her go weak in the knees.

His smile was beautiful, pure, and while the rest of him might not have been handsome to look at, there was something about the man's genuine warmth that was contagious. It burnished her soul into a beauty it could never have achieved on its own. When he walked, the way he moved, though slightly lumbering and at times a little awkward, as though unsure of himself, Belle thought the man effortlessly handsome, every step he took.

Every movement deliberate and graceful. When she was around him, she did not feel the cold mists of Paris, or the life that continued beyond his bell towers or the cathedral walls. A voice startled Belle, making her jump.

"There you are!" Sister Alice snapped, startling Belle out of her thoughts of the cathedral's bell ringer. She jumped and felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she stood up, brushing her hands on the skirts of her dress. "I've been looking for you, child, what are you doing out here in the cold dressed like that, you'll catch your death!" Belle coughed once to hide her embarrassment. Alice rolled her eyes at the gesture, not knowing why she was so nervous. "I could use your help with a small favor before you help Jeanne in the kitchens, if you are willing, child."

"Of course," she agreed. "There's no need to ask. What can I do to help you, Alice?"

Alice was looking disgruntled and tired, but alert. "There's a curtain in our library that I'm afraid I cannot reach. Father Darius frequents the library most nights, and drew the curtains back last night, but I thought I should like to open them and let some light in the room. Normally, I'd climb the ladder to get to it, but my joints this morning are especially sore. You've youth on your side, child. Would you be a love and help me with this? I promise it won't take but a second."

Belle grinned and nodded, hoping Alice didn't notice how flushed her face was, or how nervous she looked. "Yes, I'm happy to help you. Show me where."

"It's this way," she laughed. "Follow me." Alice carefully studied the brunette on their walk to Darius's study. She suppressed the urge to laugh. Judging by the look in the girl's eyes, she'd taken her advice and gone to see their bell ringer in his tower, after all. "You have stars in your eyes, girl," she chuckled.

"Do I?" she asked, only half paying attention, and distracted, avoiding Alice's piercing gaze.

"I take it from that look on your face that our boy accepted your apology?" she smirked. "We told you he would. He's been alone far too long in this world, and you might be the only woman he's ever opened up to like this."

"Yes, he did," she grinned. "He's very kind. Sweet, too."

"Of course, he is," Alice joked. "Jeanne and I told you there was nothing to fear by going up to see him again. He's a handsome enough fellow, minus the bit of an eyesore, that horrid contusion above his brow bone is really all that's 'wrong' with the boy if you ask me; it pains me to see him alone still, after all these years." The nun playfully jabbed the brunette in the side. "But now that you're here, he won't be. I have hope for him."

"He wants to see me again tonight," she whispered, her dark eyes twinkling, and she barely succeeded in hiding her excitement from Sister Alice. "He…we've spent the last few evenings in his tower," she clarified, noticing Alice's confused expression.

At that remark, she broke into a wicked grin. "Oh, does he now?" she chortled. "Sounds like you made quite the ah…impression on him, then, I take it? Our boy is handsome enough, and he can be quite the charmer when he wants to be, I've said it for years, he's too modest and doesn't give himself credit where credit is due. But…"

Belle shrugged, trying to brush it off, but internally, she was delighted and was already counting down the hours until evening Mass was over. "I guess I must have," she admitted, pondering it. "I—what is that?" she breathed, letting out a breathy, tiny squeak of fear once they reached his study.

She halted in her tracks, staring up in awe at the ladder in the cathedral's small but intimate library. _Of course, she'd ask me to climb all the way up there_ , she thought, letting out a tiny groan. "It is beautiful…"

The nun nodded. "It's not much, my dear, but it is all we have, and it is enough. Feel free to visit anytime you like and take any of the books, so long as you put them back where you got them, child, but for now…"

"Wh—where should I start?" Belle breathed, her dark eyes growing wide and round with shock. This little library paled in comparison to the small library and bookshop in her village. So many books! New material!

Novels! Poems! Memoirs! Plays! More material than she quite frankly knew what to do with, honestly.

Sister Alice glanced sideways at the younger woman out of the corner of her eyes, her blue eyes twinkling with a gleam of mischief. "Might I suggest with the curtains?" she snorted, jerking her head towards the curtains covering the window. She allowed a bemused little chuckle to escape her thin lips as the inventor's daughter blushed in embarrassment and took a step forward.

"Y—yes, of course," stammered Belle, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. Belle took a deep breath, steeling her nerves and began to climb the ladder, doing her best not to look down. "What exactly do you want me to do, Alice, I—what on earth did Father Darius do, nail these curtains shut?" she demanded, giving a gentle tug on the curtains once she'd reached the top. "What is Darius thinking?" she asked. "Why seal them off like this?"

She climbed up the wooden ladder which rested idly against the window, near one of the bookcases. Belle kept her gaze fixated on the rows of books in front of her, doing her best to avoid looking down at the ground.

But gods, these damned curtains were so high up! She bit the inside of her cheek and momentarily clenched her jaw shut and thought how ironic it was that she was afraid of heights, and yet, here she was, nearing the highest point of the ceiling and she did not inadvertently want to shake the ladder or she would fall off it.

"I know," growled Alice, her blue eyes narrowed as she glared up at the curtains. "It's what it looks like. They're nailed shut, I'm afraid. His curtains have been this way ever since he took up residence in the library."

Belle chuckled. "You know, this reminds me of back home. We had a fellow who hated to come out in the daytime and I never—" she started to say but was interrupted by the sound of someone gently rapping on the door frame to announce their presence caused both Belle and Alice to look up, startled at the noise.

Quasi stood in the doorway, his tall, lean form towering over the light cast into the dimly lit study, and his face half-concealed in the shadows. His arms were crossed, and he leaned against the door frame for support, but there was an amused look in his brilliant blue eyes, and he was fighting back his urge to smile and losing.

"Well, well, well," Alice chirped happily, although her blue eyes were now alight with a wicked gleam. "It's a surprise seeing you down here this early. We don't see you down here much!" she teased, raising an eyebrow in his direction as she waited for him to respond. "To what do we owe this tremendous honor, my boy?"

The bell ringer rolled his eyes and scoffed, shooting the nun a dark withering look. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I not supposed to engage you in a conversation? Is that not allowed?" he teased. "I'll remember that next time I visit."

"Don't you get testy with me!" she snapped. Her tone was harsh, but her eyes were playful. "We both know the _real_ reason you came down here, don't we?" she hissed, jerking her head up towards the ladder where the brunette had frozen, rooted to her spot as she still tugged on the curtains. She looked up at Belle and laughed.

The poor girl had such a look of shock on her face. Her face was ashen, and her posture had stiffened at his arrival. She seemed frozen, unable to speak or look at anyone. "I guess these days you have a reason to come down now, don't you?" Alice smirked, taking note of how the bell ringer blanched at her comment. He shot her a dark look. Alice fell silent and waited. She thought the man was looking especially handsome this morning in a simple brown linen shirt and black hosen, the neckline of his shirt open just slightly to allow for the briefest of glimpses at his lean, muscular form underneath. His red hair would need a trim soon, but Jeanne would take care of that later today. _I see how he looks at her_ , the nun thought, amused. _I wonder if he'll make a move._

"I came to speak to Belle," he retorted, his tone cautious but pleasant. "That is if you'll allow it, Alice. Surely, she can spare a minute before you drag her off to the kitchens? I won't be long," he said.

Alice threw up her hands in surrender. "Don't let me stop you, she's all yours," she smirked, sauntering off to a nearby corner near one of Darius's shelves. "She's yours." _Oh, how I can't wait to tell Jeanne_ , she thought. The look in his eyes as he looked at the brunette. There was no doubt in her mind; the man was smitten, for sure.

Although twins Sisters Alice and Jeanne made a habit of teasing him, internally, they were delighted.

He was a kind man, handsome, no deformities save for the man's unfortunate contusion over his eye and the blindness in his one eye, and one could make a case the small hump near the man's shoulder was off setting as well, but aside from that, the boy was healthy, and quite content with his simplistic life up in those bell towers. He deserved his own happiness. He was a man who put others before himself.

But it was high time he found someone to spend the rest of his life with, he couldn't stay alone forever. Alice knew this girl would most likely be the one for him. _I can only hope so_. Alice bit her lip and watched, silent, nodding only once in acknowledgment as Jeanne entered Darius's study and took a seat next to her cousin to watch events unfold.

"What are you doing?" Quasi asked, his blue eyes gleaming with intrigue as he made his way over to the ladder. "You do know this is Darius's library, don't you? He doesn't let just anybody in here, you know…."

"I…" when Belle opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. She felt her cheeks burn and her stomach was heavy and twisting in uncomfortable knots. Her body numbed and she became painfully aware that a lock of hair had escaped from her headscarf. She reached up a shaking hand to tuck it back.

_What would he think, what would he say? Oh God, help me_ , she thought, closing her eyes.

"Opening these curtains," she said at last through gritted teeth when she'd finally found her voice again. Shaking her head in response to clear her mind of her unhelpful thoughts, Belle turned back towards the curtains and resumed attempting to pull the cloth back and let the sunlight stream in through the window.

As she did this, she felt the ladder begin to tip backwards. Belle part her lips part open in shock and a muffled squeak escape her lips as she hastily grabbed onto the curtain's rod, scrambling to stop herself and the ladder from pitching backwards. She gave a vicious tug and let out a startled scream as the ladder she was standing on gave out and she fell. Belle blearily looked up just in time to see the ladder tilting and falling right towards her.

Belle quickly shielded her face, bracing herself for the impact, but it never came. She opened her eyes and had found that Quasi had moved so fast to cover her and shield her from the ladder as it fell, she hadn't even noticed him. He met her eyes and Belle felt her breath catch in her throat.

His blue eyes were blazing. He was growing angry, but not at her. He stood, tossing aside the ladder and shot a dark glare in Alice's direction. The bell ringer held out a hand to help her up. Belle shakily accepted his help, rising to her feet and drawing in short, sharp breaths that pained her lungs.

She didn't think twice about enveloping him in a tight hug, her fingers tightly clutching the back of his shirt for support. "Thank you," she croaked, her voice hoarse.

Startled, Quasi was shocked at the gesture but quickly returned her embrace, thinking how wonderful it felt to be holding her in his arms. He pulled apart first, holding her at arm's length to examine her for any injuries.

She winced as his gaze landed on her bandaged hand, a result of last night when she'd accidentally cut her finger while helping Sister Maria chop the carrots for the soup for supper last night. The blood had soaked through her dressings, reopening the wound.

He turned to Alice, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his face tensed and his eyes lost all semblance of warmth. "ALICE!" he bellowed. "This has _you_ written all over it. Don't you lie to me, Alice! What were you thinking, having her climb all the way up there by herself? She's not…she's not like me!" he shouted. "Next time you have something you can't reach, come get me, don't put her through something like this again, she could have gotten hurt, or even _killed_!" he shouted, beside himself.

The bell ringer turned back to Belle and his expression softened slightly as his eyes met hers.

_There's something here_ , she thought, hardly daring to believe it as she lost herself in his blue eyes once again. _I don't know how or why, but something's starting right now_. _Hope. Desire. Maybe, even, the beginnings of love. I can only hope so_ , she thought, offering him a shy smile.

"Nice catch, Romeo!" Alice barked out, her wicked laugh echoing in Darius's study. "That was smooth," she complimented. "I knew you'd never let anything happen to her. It's a good thing you came by when you did, or—"

"She would have been hurt!" he shouted, growing angrier the longer he lingered on the incident and let it consume him. "I swear to God, Alice, if you pull a stunt like this again, I'll—" He was ranting now, going a mile a minute, showing no signs of being on the verge of stopping anytime soon.

Belle caught Jeanne's eye and she nodded.

Alice, meanwhile, was in full force. "It's nice to see Darius's ways rubbing off on you, boy! We'll make a man of you yet, I just know it!" she teased, which only fueled his temper more.

Jeanne chimed in. "You know, if you were waiting for the opportune moment to kiss her, Quasi, that was it!" she laughed. Alice burst into laughter, unable to stop it.

"You really think this is a joke?" he yelled, running a hand through his red hair as he glowered at the pair of nuns. "She could have been seriously hurt, you're lucky I was here to catch her, or you'd be hearing about it later from Darius and he—"

"Quasi, please don't do this, this really isn't necessary. You're...you're making a scene over nothing. I...I am fine, my friend," spoke up Belle softly, using his nickname, but it was too late. He'd built up his anger, and there was no stopping him now unless she took matters into her own hands. One look at Alice and Jeanne was more than enough. _They're actually enjoying this_ , she thought, bemused. _They're waiting to see what I'll do to him_.

"Please!" snapped Alice. "Darius won't yell at her, the man likes her too much for that! I've seen the way he looks at her!" she shouted, and the brunette paled at the comment. If she wasn't mistaken, Belle saw just the briefest flickers of jealousy pass through the bell ringer's eyes at the mention of Darius, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

_He's not jealous of the priest, is he? What for? There's nothing to be jealous of_ , she thought, biting her knuckles. Belle, sensing danger as the bell ringer opened his mouth to yell again at the sisters, decided to intervene by giving him a brief kiss on the cheek. Stunned, he fell silent.

"Thank you," Belle whispered softly, hoping to diffuse the worst of his temper. "If you wouldn't have been there, I don't know what would have happened," she admitted. "I am lucky that nothing appears broken."

Quasi took a step back, his eyes wide in shock. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he looked at Belle, but the corners of his mouth turned in a soft smile.

She wasn't sure if she had done him kindness or not just now, but still, he looked like he had enjoyed it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alice and Jeanne had delightfully wicked grins on their faces. She scoffed and rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to Notre Dame's bell ringer, who'd stiffened and was looking suddenly tense, but there was something sparkling in his eyes. Hope. Lust. Love.

Whatever it was, Belle didn't have time to ponder it as she waited for him to speak.

Fidgeting and nervous, he ran a hand through his flame of red hair and took a deep breath. "I…I wanted to say thank you for—for last night. It means a lot to me to have you visit me in the tower, and I was wondering if…well, I know you had intended to come to see me later tonight, and I was thinking, if you wanted to, we could—we could go away, outside the cathedral, I mean," he clarified, his eyes widening with shock at his own suggestion. "If—if you want that, that is," he managed, at last, nervous. "I could show you Paris if you'd like. If you want."

He paused and looked away, clearly upset with himself. Belle's smile faltered. She knew he was steeling himself for her to say no and be disappointed.

She couldn't resist teasing him. Just a little bit. Belle grinned. "In that case, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're two steps away from asking if you can court me," she joked, noticing how his face paled at the suggestion and a flicker of panic crossed his orbs. _Has that been his intention all along?_ she wondered.

"Are you deaf?" shouted Alice. "We heard him from here!"

"Alice lay off her for two seconds, won't you!" he snapped. "No, I—that's not what I'm trying to do, I was just…" his face fell, crestfallen.

"I'd really like that," she whispered, smiling softly, her heart answering for her, though her mind was practically screaming at her to refuse, and what on Earth was she thinking, for she was a married woman?

"I should have known better than to ask," he growled, a dark look overcoming his features. "You deserve someone better than me, and I—wait, what?" he asked, staring at her as though he hadn't heard her correctly. "What did you say?"

"Quasi, I said yes," she said happily, laughing.

The bell ringer's face remained impassive for a moment as he processed her answer. He hadn't been expecting her to say yes. He broke into a huge grin. "Will eight be too late for you?" he asked, wringing his hands together, weaving his knuckles in between his fingers, another nervous habit of his, she affectionately noticed. "I have evening Mass and Vespers that I cannot miss, but I can meet you afterward."

Belle smiled. "Just tell me where to find you, and I'm there," she promised.

"Meet me by the entrance, then?" he asked, still grinning.

"I'll be there," she promised, smiling at his dazed expression. His eyes at the moment were hopeful.

Their moment was short-lived and interrupted as the sound of approaching footsteps filled the corridors. Belle jolted out her thoughts and looked towards Darius's study door, startled.

"Damn it!" he growled darkly. "Darius is coming. This isn't good, we need to get you out of here, and you shouldn't be in here!" he groaned, looking suddenly panicked as he glanced wildly around at the mess they'd made of the study.

"But it wasn't my fault! This whole thing was Alice's idea!" she laughed. "Why can we just tell him the truth about what happened, I'm sure he'll understand—"

"No, no, talking doesn't work!" he snapped. "He's got a temper, and trust me; you don't want to get on his bad side. I'm not going to let you take the fall for this, it wasn't your fault! Quick, in here!" he urged, grabbing her by her wrist and yanking her forward with more force than she thought possible of him and shoved her inside a closet near one of Darius's shelves. "Don't make a sound," he cautioned. "I'll cover for you," he promised.

His eyes were the last thing she focused her attention on before he slammed the door shut, right as Darius entered the room.

The bell ringer took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm. He hoped his eyes wouldn't betray him. He'd never been a good liar.

"I heard voices! What are you all doing in here, it's—" Father Darius froze as he assessed the damage. The ladder had fallen and knocked over a smaller table containing a glass vase. The vase had shattered, scattering glass fragments everywhere. "What happened in here?" he demanded. "I heard something, was that you?" he growled tersely.

"Yes," Quasimodo answered, a little too abruptly. His heart was racing, bracing himself for the worst of Darius's temper. But he would endure it if it meant Belle would be safe from it. _I won't let her get in trouble for this_.

When Father Darius spoke, his voice trembled slightly and there was an edge to his voice as the sound of crunching glass filled Belle's eardrums. He kicked aside the ladder. _He's doing his best to control his anger_ , Belle thought, bracing herself for the storm that was coming. She could recognize the hardened edges in his voice.

"What happened in here to cause such a godforsaken mess?" he demanded, his tone cold and unforgiving. "Someone answer me. **NOW**!" he shouted.

"Alice did it!" Quasi accused, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he crossed his arms and smirked at the nun's look of outrage and horror, leaning against the closet door. "It's her fault, blame her, Darius!"

_I can't let Belle be discovered like this_ , he thought wildly as he hoped his voice remained calm.

"Quasi!" snarled Alice, shooting a dark glare his way as she gathered her hair and piled it up into a loose bun. "Damn it, don't drag me into this! It wasn't me!"

"Drag you into it? Alice, _you_ started this whole thing! It's your fault, it was like this when I got here!" he shouted, laughing in spite of his annoyance with this whole situation.

All he'd done was come down to ask Belle to spend the evening with him, and never in his lifetime did he imagine he would be covering for her like this. He hoped she'd forgive him. He coughed once to mask his laughter, but Darius wasn't buying it. His brother glowered at him before turning his attention to the two cousins.

Belle bit her knuckles to keep from laughing. She willed her breathing to slow down almost to a stop as she held her breath. _I have to be quiet. If he finds me here, there's no telling how he'll react, and then Quasi will get in trouble because of me. Stay quiet; you can do this, Belle_. She bit the wall of her cheek and fell silent.

Quasi hesitated. "Let it go, Darius!" he called out, his quiet voice calm and collected despite the tension. "I helped Alice with this, I admit, but obviously, we didn't mean for the entire ladder to come crashing down and take out the table," he laughed, unable to keep it in any longer.

Darius sighed, rubbing his temples. "Jeanne, Alice, you two aren't off the hook. We'll discuss this in a moment. Brother," he said suddenly, turning his attention to the bell ringer, who paled and stiffened against the closet door. "Don't you have chores to do? Afternoon Mass starts soon, why aren't you up in the bell tower?" he asked, suspicious.

Quasi felt his face drain of color as he avoided Darius's gaze, not knowing what to say. "Uh, well, yes, but I…"

He fell silent as he withered under Darius's stern gaze.

Darius's blue eyes flashed, his eyes sharp and full of emotion. As he glared at the bell ringer, his eyes became a frozen glacier as he looked into the boy's eyes, searching for any hint of trouble that he may be lying. "You seem troubled. Is anything bothering you?"

"Troubled? No, no," he said hastily, looking intently at a spot on the wall behind Darius. "There's nothing wrong, I swear!" he exclaimed, hoping his eyes didn't betray him.

Belle's nose tickled as she fought back a sneeze. The closet she'd been shoved into suffered from a thick layer of dust that was a disgusting gray color. She resisted the urge until she couldn't. She did her best to cover her sneeze with her arm, but she couldn't stop it happening.

Quasi's eyes grew wide as he kicked the closet door to cover the sound she'd made. He coughed and cringed as the priest noticed the behavior and narrowed his eyes.

"What was that?" he growled, glaring at him.

"Sorry, Darius," he apologized. "That was me, I—I didn't mean it." He flinched as the priest strode over to him and closed off the gap of space so that the tip of his nose was practically touching Quasi's. Even though the priest was shorter than Quasi by a few feet, he was more intimidating than their bell ringer.

"Let me tell you how it works, Quasi," he hissed. "This is _my_ study. My library. Not yours, not the Archdeacon's. Mine. No one—not even you—come in here without my knowing about it. Do I go into your tower when you're not there?" he challenged, glowering at him.

"Uh, you know what, Darius? Now that you've found us, we could use your help!" Alice chirped, coming to the bell ringer's rescue, her eyes briefly flitting from him to the closet door. She smirked but bit her tongue.

"With what?" he snapped, kicking aside a few shards of glass. "Clearly, it doesn't seem like you need my help!"

"There's a—a cauldron we need your help moving into the kitchens!" Jeanne called out, thinking fast. She winked at Quasi, but luckily Darius didn't notice her gesture.

Darius groaned. "Fine, I'll help you both, but next time one of you gets the bright idea to come in here when I'm not here, don't," he emphasized through gritted teeth.

Alice laughed as she led him out of the room, pausing only once to look back over her shoulder and shoot Quasi a suggestive wink, Jeanne trailing behind and following suit.

Belle shielded her eyes at the light as he wrenched the door open once they were alone. He smiled at her bewildered expression as she took in what just happened. He held out a hand to help her out.

"I'm sorry you had to listen to that, and for shoving you in the closet," Quasi apologized, looking pained. "I—it was the only thing I could think of, but I couldn't let you get in trouble. Darius is much more even-tempered than that, but Alice and Jeanne especially know how to get under his skin. I am sorry too that those two put you up to this."

She laughed, blinking back tears as they gathered in the corners of her eyes. Quasi smiled. Her laughter was a delight to listen to. Hers was the sound of the summer rain. The sun brightened, no matter the weather. It was as if her laughter lifted a veil from his eyes and allowed him to see the world more clearly.

He hesitated, desperately wishing he could stay, but if he wasn't up in the tower in fifteen minutes, Darius would have his head for being late to ring for Mass, and he was already on edge with their priest as it was. "I must go, I need to ring for afternoon Mass," he said reluctantly, never taking his eyes off Belle.

"Wait! N-don't go, please!" she cried out, holding out a hand as he turned away from her, preparing to leave. "I…" He paused and turned, waiting for her to speak. Belle glanced wildly around the room, thinking of something— _anything_ —just to be near him a second longer, and to delay the part where the bell ringer would leave her alone again. "Walk me to the kitchens? I don't think I want to go alone?" she asked, biting her bottom lip and flashing a shy smile at him that practically made the man's heart stop.

"Of course," he said quietly, offering her his arm. They did not speak much during the walk to the kitchens. The two arrived at the kitchens just in time for the sound of Darius swearing in German to reach their eardrums, his footsteps growing louder as he exited the kitchens. Quasi stopped dead in his tracks and froze.

"Damn!" he swore, holding his arm out in front of Belle, as though to shield her from the worst of the priest's temper. "Damn, back, back, go that way!" he urged, grabbing her arm, and pushed her forward into one of the side passageways that led to the south bell tower.

Belle hid in the shadows and waited. To her pleasant surprise, Quasi didn't wait to be discovered. He slid in next to her, concealing his tall form in the shadows. She was aware she was standing too close to him for his comfort, she could hear his breath catch in his throat as she leaned into him, her body pressed against his as she struggled to stay under the cover of darkness as Darius passed, still ranting at Alice and Jeanne.

Belle glanced up at the bell ringer and drew in a sharp breath. Her fingers clutched his shirt tightly as she leaned into him, waiting for Darius to turn the corner. Her heart pounded against its cage. He was staring at her with such intensity and admiration; she didn't know what to make of it.

She fought against the urge to kiss him. But her conscience, it would seem, had other ideas in mind for her, and urged her on. _Don't fight it. You know you want to. You've wanted it since a few nights ago, don't try to deny it. It's true. Why not? The two of us are alone; I don't think we'll be interrupted. Just…just do it. Don't overthink this!_

Quasi stood still, frozen from fear and excitement; his eyes never left hers as a soft smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you," Belle whispered, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers still grasping onto his shirt in a vice grip. She leaned in so her forehead rested against his. She liked the warmth he gave. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"For what?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Belle smiled, feeling her cheeks flush and her heart flutter at his amazing voice and his smile. "For everything you've done. For being you."

Unexpectedly, his hand drifted to her waist. It settled there and she felt his fingers grab onto the back of her dress. She hesitantly looked up at him.

The swirls of emotions she saw in his eyes made her gasp. Lust and desire for her.

_He wants it just as much as I do_. The man's features were alluring, his face carefully structured, molded to perfection by God's graces. When she looked at him, she only saw his handsome face. She did not see the unfortunate contusion over his eye, instead, choosing to focus on his ginger hair and his cobalt blue eyes.

As they looked at each other, she felt the world stop. Nothing else but the moment the two of them. She leaned up to kiss him, against her better judgement, her mind screaming at her to walk away before it was too late, tilting her head and closed her eyes in anticipation, steeling her nerves. Their noses touched briefly, and she was annoyed when a startled shout broke her out of the intimate moment, ruining it. Both of them looked up, frustrated at the interruption.

Belle noticed Sister Alice and Jeanne watching the pair of them out of the corners of her eyes, and she blanched. "Um…this…this isn't what it looks like," she breathed, feeling her eyes widen in shock and embarrassment.

"Oh no, of course it isn't," chirped Sister Jeanne and shot her twin a mischievous look that Alice returned. "We only walked in on an almost kiss, so sorry to interrupt that, by the way, but don't let us keep you…"

"Alice, for the love of God!" he shouted, glaring at Alice. Belle let out a tiny groan, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks as she buried her head in his shoulder, embarrassed at having been caught.

"We had no idea you two were back here," chirped Jeanne, although the look on her face suggested she was glad to have broken up the moment. Her grin was wicked. "Don't let us stop you. We'll just…go…" she laughed.

"No, there's no need," Quasi growled, his handsome face contorted into a scowl as he glowered at the pair of them. "I was just leaving. It's almost time for Mass anyways, and Darius would have my head if I'm late to ring," he snapped. Turning to Belle, his expression softened, and he smiled at her. "I'll see you tonight," he said, his voice velvety and faint.

She inexplicably felt herself begin to grow nervous while at the same time overwhelmed by a powerful feeling of elation. She always had a bad habit of biting her nails whenever she was nervous. With the nail of her thumb in her mouth, she stared after the doorway in the kitchen where the bell ringer had been only moments ago. She bit down harder than anticipated and accidentally swallowed the fragment. Belle curled her fingers into the palm of her hand, not even feeling them dig into her skin.

Y _ou're nervous. Don't deny it. You're facing an entire evening alone with him. It's what you've wanted, but still, you need tonight to go well. Tonight, you should tell him how you truly feel about him so you can stop hiding your true emotions. You like him a lot, and you need to tell him the truth about Gaston. Don't break his heart._

The nuns turned their topic of conversation to something else, but Belle didn't pay them any attention. She was too preoccupied with hoping tonight would go well and hoping he would react positively to her admission of her feelings for him.

_How long I've wanted this, someone who can accept me for who I am, not for who everybody else seems to want me to be. Oh, God. But what if—what if he doesn't feel the same way? Then what? What happens after that? What if I— No. Don't think about it. Don't let yourself. You saw how he was looking at you just now, he wants you, there's no denying it. He likes me; too, I just know it_.

There was a bright flame in her soul, always burning in the hopes of finding love, never dying out. Always ready to start a new blaze. That was why she always tried to stay optimistic. She could feel the positive energy flowing in her veins until it rekindled and sparked the flame anew yet again. The spark of hope that Quasi gave her any time she spent more time with him was constantly there, she could feel it. It was a feeling that she hadn't had, but she welcomed it.

Belle felt as though her growing affection and love for Notre Dame's bell ringer burned with a passion deep inside her that was hotter than a thousand suns. She knew that as she looked at him, he would be a friend for all eternity. He was all that was on her mind, especially now. His eyes had a softness to them; there was something so welcoming in his rich blue eyes. She felt a little more lost, a little more at home the longer they stayed together.

_I can only pray that tonight, I can find a way to tell him of my feelings for him, and so I can stop hiding. I think I…I think I like you, Quasi. I like you a lot, and I don't know what to do. I can only hope that you'll return my affections. You're my one stable force, my stability in a life full of chaos and darkness, and I so desperately need that stability in my life. I—I need you if you'll have me. I like him. And I can't believe I only just now realized it._

Belle became so engrossed in her work as she headed out of the kitchens and towards one of the rooms where they kept the food stores, making her way down the hallway, preoccupied in getting through the day in anticipation of the night that lay ahead of her, that she did not see the Prince lingering in the shadows...


	19. Her Mistake

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

The Prince stared at the girl, that material of beauty that was Belle. He could see now why the Judge had been so adamant that his ward not be allowed to be near the pretty young thing, for she really was quite a beauty. There was no doubt about it in Adam’s mind. He met the young woman’s gaze with critical interest, though the girl’s back was currently turned, and she did not notice him, as she seemed to be lingering near the front door. Her gown, a simple green linen floor length dress with long, close-fitting sleeves and the dress laced up in the back, highlighted her petite, curvaceous figure.

The Prince had heard tales of this strange girl and her family. How her father was rumored to be a madman, touched in the head with his inventions, and had the girl not married his former old childhood friend, Gaston, she too, might have turned out the same way. The Prince scoffed and glanced out one of the windows in the nave, still keeping to the shadows until he saw a window of opportunity to introduce himself to his friend’s wife and learn her name for himself.

Gaston’s little wife was a girl of many stories, but stories, the Prince knew, were for the gullible, and the Prince was not about to digest such stupid, peasant lies for the mere sake of entertainment. But she was, even the Prince had to confess such a sweet sight. What this celestial like creature in front of him could see in a monster such as the same one that the Judge was in charge of, he who was rumored to live in shadow, was beyond that of the Prince’s comprehension. Even among the gloom of Notre Dame’s dimly lit interior, Dupont’s beauty of a wife was like a ray of golden sunshine.

Her dark brown eyes were inquisitive, her pale skin white and pristine, as if cut from pristine pearls of the finest quality, and her chest was a pleasant convex, her figure eye catching in her simple green gown. Gaston’s wife was not overly tall and willowy. She strode forward from the nave in the main level of the sanctuary towards the front doors, refusing the offered arm of a cathedral guard, who looked offended. The Prince watched as the petite little brunette walked, it was with the confidence of someone a decade older. The young woman was not just flawless in her bone structure. Her skin was like silk over glass and she radiated an intelligent beauty from deep within. Her face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving.

A snowy face, very beautiful, like a snow queen in the fairytales of old. The girl’s hands too, were bone-white naturally, soft, and elegant, as pale hands like hers often were. She looked like a porcelain doll. The Prince almost worried she’d shatter if she were to fall. Even in the dark, he could see this stunning creature, like a beacon of light. The white creamy tone of her skin reminded the Prince of whipped milk, and her hair, which cascaded in natural waves and curls to just past the edges of her collarbones was the brown of aged mahogany, rich and deep, yet with the subtle auburn hues that only time could bring, those gentle inflections of a soft red hue. With each stride forward the girl took, the dark strands tumbled, reflecting the strengthening moonlight in waves. And then the girl looked his way, and he froze.

The way her eyes widened in shock, though his gaze did not linger upon the stranger’s expression, which was one of an astonished bewilderment, but her eyes.

Her eyes were the type of rich brown that was like a sweet decadent chocolate. The Prince found himself mesmerized and unable to pull himself away from her gaze.

The type of chocolate that melted at the slightest beat of heat from lust or love, or of happiness, of which this girl had experienced very little. The Prince could tell for himself. For the chocolate within her bewitching eyes had grown hard from the cold, harsh reality that was evident within the City of Lovers, and no doubt, of her marriage.

What the Prince had first assumed to be nothing more than a shadow had quickly moved and taken on the girl’s eye-catching form. Even now, as the Prince slowly advanced upon the girl as she waited near the front double oak doors of the sanctuary, clearly in wait for someone, she did not flinch nor did she tear her gaze away first.

The girl was currently staring at him with the look that most women of Paris wore, one designed not to give any emotion away. Prince Adam furrowed his blond brows into a frown and continued his advancing upon the brunette beauty at a snail’s pace.

Prince Adam regarded the look of perfect impassiveness upon the young woman’s face and bit the wall of his cheek. This was just another sign of violence in this rat’s hole of a city. Paris was not for the faint-hearted, and this woman, the Prince knew without even having so much as to speak a single word to the girl, was not of the faint of heart, which the young nobleman greatly admired, for he loathed weak, sniveling women. The tension that controlled Gaston’s wife’s face as she stared at the Prince as finally, he ceased to walk and halted in his movements, had always been a part of her life. For abuse at his former friend’s hand was all this creature had known in her life. And to take that away from her, she was apt to re-invent it simply to keep her status quo in this world.

“Milady,” the Prince murmured in a low, husky voice, reaching out a surprisingly gentle hand and clasped the girl’s hand in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss. “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of meeting you. Permit me. Prince Adam, milady. Might I have the pleasure of learning your name?"

The Prince felt he could not explain why the skin of his palm where his hands clutched onto the girl’s hand tingled like fire, and his face fell in disappointment as she gingerly tugged her hand out of Adam’s grasp, her hand falling limply to her side.

“What is your name?” The Prince asked, and when the girl’s lips parted open slightly in shock, he resisted the temptation to reach up with his finger and trace the outline of her lips, to see if they were truly as soft and luscious as they looked. To feel how her lips moved in a kiss. He watched as the girl bit the wall of her cheek and looked like she was fighting the urge to open her mouth and scream, for which the Prince was immensely grateful.

“Answer me,” he retorted flatly. “Tell me your name.”

The girl blinked owlishly, and again, her lips parted, though at last, she found her voice as she fumbled, dipping her head in acknowledgement of the royal’s presence and gathered the skirts of her simple green linen gown and sank into a low curtsy. “Belle, Your Highness.”

The Prince, whose back was momentarily turned towards Belle and therefore the girl could not see his smirk, rolled his eyes. “Of course, it is,” he drawled lazily, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned back around to face the stunning little creature, who was looking shocked. “Why have you ventured to this holy place, mademoiselle? What are you doing?”

Belle blinked, not clearly having anticipated the Prince’s line of questioning as she straightened her posture. “I…” but her voice trailed off and she painfully twisted her hands together as she glanced towards one of the cathedral’s tower stairwells, as if waiting for him.

The Prince felt his blond brows knit together in confusion as his frown deepened as his eyes followed the girl’s inquisitive gaze. He knew those stairwells led towards the monster’s abode.

He turned his attentions back towards the gaze as her head swiveled back towards the front and cast her eyes downward, and it was then that he noticed the little book in the girl’s hands.

“So…you like to read,” the Prince breathed, lowering his voice an octave, and staring at Belle Dupont as though he could not quite believe his eyes, what he was witnessing just now.

“Y—yes, monsieur,” Belle stammered, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks. The young woman glanced around as she heard the fading footsteps of one of the monks, Brother Paul, and one of the nuns, Sister Maria, as the pair politely excused themselves, carrying ingredients towards the kitchens, where the nuns were no doubt preparing a light supper.

The Prince could read it in the girl’s expression, in those bewitching umber eyes of hers. She knew she would get no help from either of those two. Belle frowned. She swallowed nervously as she realized yet again, she’d gotten herself into a predicament that she was unsure she would be able to get herself out of, as she lost herself in the Prince’s cobalt blue eyes…

His mouth was set in a semi-pout as he carefully eyed the Dupont girl. It would be easy enough to claim her for himself, and make her his Princess, bring her back to the castle. For the Judge had claimed that she was his to do with whatever the Prince wished, and Adam needed a bride, and this beauty before him was like no other young woman in Paris. But…he saw something just now in Belle’s eyes that could only be described as a hatred. A look that Prince Adam had never before seen in a young woman close to his age before. At least…not directed towards him. He had heard tales of Gaston’s little wife, not believing them at first. How this girl, this French Rose… Belle, he thought, loving the way her name sounded, even inside his head, how she was rumored to be quite the beautiful young woman.

But seeing her up close and personal like this only reinforced that truth in the Prince’s mind. The woman of fair complexion, streaks of auburn red in her dark brown hair that gleamed whenever they captured the light just in such a way, that gave off the appearance as though her hair had been set ablaze. _An angel of fire_ , Prince Adam thought wildly, his eyes darkening.

She had the kindest pair of brilliant brown eyes, trimmed by long, gorgeous lashes. Lovely eyes, innocent and pure, yet somehow gentle, that held a tiny warmth within the pair of them, of which the Prince knew he wanted it for himself. If it were possible to bottle her warmth and hoard it within a glass vial that he could keep tucked safely away, then he would.

Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted pink luscious lips, as if crafted by God Himself.

Standing this close to her, Prince Adam could see Belle’s lips clearly, glistening attractively with a light salve coating that added a further sheen to her already healthy lips. The Prince imagined biting her mouth in a passionate kiss until he drew blood, then tasting her blood.

Such things ignited the Beast within, that lay dormant within his chest. Until now. All these features sat together on Belle’s delicate, almost angelic face, and the Prince knew it now.

That he had to make her _his_.

* * *

Belle heard the Prince’s words, though they did not entirely register until the young noble coughed once to clear his throat, more out of irritation at having to jolt her mind back to the present. She blinked as she realized the blond-haired Prince before her had asked her a question. “Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to the cathedral’s library, milady?” The Prince held out his arm and offered Belle a dazzlingly charming white smile that Belle knew might once have made her swoon, back when she was naïve and much younger and foolish.

After spending so long in the company of Gaston and his entire wretched family, Belle had no other choice available to her but to mature at a rapid pace and learned much of the ways of the world here in France and the vicious way that men like Gaston, and now this Prince, thought. She knew the Prince had but one thing on his mind when it came to her and that was what rested between her legs. Belle bit her bottom lip in a pout. She had told Quasi that she would meet him down here by the front entrance around eight. Still ten minutes away.

Ten minutes was more than enough time for this boorish pig of a Prince standing before her to do whatever it was that he wanted of her, and she did not know if Notre Dame’s bell ringer would help her out of this one. Her hand outstretched towards the Prince’s as she hesitated, not wanting at all to take his arm, but seeing no other alternative, judging by that hungry look in the man’s icy blue eyes. She was not going to go to the library alone un-escorted. Belle drew in a sharp breath of frigid cold air that pained her lungs as she intertwined her right arm around his strong arm, feeling revolted that she was touching Prince Adam, that Beast.

She subconsciously slid the long trumpet sleeve of her gown over her left, effectively shielding the yellow gold ring from his view, for she did not know how this man, who was essentially a stranger to her, would react to learning she was still technically a married woman. She could guess not very well, judging by the possessive look of hunger in the noble man’s bright blue eyes burning with anger and lust.

A quick glance upward as the two of them left the nave of the church, having to crane her neck upward to do it as Prince Adam was at least a few heads taller than she was, just as Quasi was, she could see the smug look of triumph in the man’s icy blue eyes as he escorted her at a leisurely pace towards the cathedral’s vast library. A speed that felt like it crawled at its petty pace, and then Belle realized that the Prince was parading her around her newfound sanctuary, showing her off.

Like she was nothing but a prize that he had won, and Belle cringed, making sure she kept her left hand hidden. Belle could not help the shudder of revulsion that traveled down her spine, though she made a point not to let her disgust show in her dark brown eyes, or else she’d be in trouble. If she were disgusted, Belle feared that she could not help it, given the dire nature of her current predicament that she was allowing herself to be led towards the library by this monstrous Beast. This Beast of a Prince, this creature who was more animal than human. Disgust. It was an emotion that all humans felt.

She knew this. She had thought that once upon a time her disgust could climb no higher for the vain pig of a boy man-child that was her husband, Gaston, but those feelings she had felt for the handsome nobleman was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to what she had felt for the man holding her arm now.

 _What disgusts you, Prince?_ Belle mused, studying the young twenty-six-year-old Prince of France out of the corner of her eye, carefully gauging the handsome man’s reactions slowly. _Why do you not listen to that voice of repulsion in your head?_ Belle thought, feeling surprised that her pure curiosity was overwhelming her fear as they continued through the dank, dimly lit corridor that led towards the library. _If even you have one, maybe, just maybe, it is there for a reason, Prince Adam. I know men like you. So, tell me…what makes your skin crawl? Does anything repulse you? Are you afraid of the dark? Is that why there are so many lit torches along the way to the library? What is repellent to you?_ All of these questions and more were swirling around in Belle’s tired head, and she flinched, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, feeling the beginnings of a splitting headache coming on, and she just wanted to be left alone.

“Are you well, mademoiselle ?” came the Prince’s voice, still sounding cold and distant to her, and when the young brunette lifted her head blearily to gaze at the young Prince, Belle felt her insides curdle like milk patterned with lemon.

Were he a kind man, like the cathedral’s bell ringer was towards her so far, then perhaps Belle might have been overjoyed to be in the present company of the handsome Prince.

But he was not, and as such, he revolted Belle to no end. Belle knew the type of man Prince Adam was. A Beast. A monster. Pure evil. The Devil Himself.

She liked to think that no detail missed her eye, ever, and even now as they continued their stroll, at long last, nearing the library, Belle heard herself exhale a tense breath through her nose, though the incredible tension did not leave her shoulders.

The young brunette figured her body would not be able to truly relax until the man left her alone in solitude. The very sight of Prince Adam made Belle sick from the ends of her dark hair to the nails on her delicate toes. She flinched. Belle considered herself not the type of woman to hate another so easily, but she knew evil when she saw it. She knew.

She blinked, not realizing he had asked of her a question. “I _said_ ,” the Prince repeated, though with a slight tone of annoyance to her voice, losing that charming tone from before, his voice growing clipped and hard. “Are you well, Belle? You are looking a little dazed.”

Belle nodded mutely, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak, she might vomit. She could taste the bitter bile coating the back of her throat and she nervously swallowed, looking away. Her stomach gave a painful lurch of fright as she felt his strong hand come up to grip her right hand, turning her palm over in his hands. “Your hands are like ice. Allow me to warm them.”

She let out a hiss, the bile in her throat stronger now, as he took her hand in his and brought her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. Belle cared not what the Prince thought of her anymore. Letting out a tiny squeak of fear, she let out a gasp of surprise as she instinctively pulled her hand away from the Prince’s ironclad grip, and Adam’s charming smile immediately faltered.

The young woman immediately dropped her gaze, not wishing to see the wrath in Prince Adam’s glacier blue eyes and felt a lock of dark chocolate hair drift in front of her face, effectively shielding her gaze from the man. When at last, Belle determined that she could no longer hide from Prince Adam any further, she lifted her chin, hating the slight tremble in it, for she was afraid what she would find in his eyes.

Adam had turned away from Belle for a moment, but when he finally turned back around, she desperately wished the man would have kept his gaze fixated on the wall behind her. Deliberation was over. He had judged her already and, in his eyes, Belle only saw a cool hatred. He’d had the same look towards her only moments ago. “In the…in the nave…” Belle whispered, her voice barely a whisper.

Unfortunately for her, Prince Adam’s hearing was better than any of the man’s wretched hounds he was rumored to go hunting with, and Belle watched, horrified, as his sharp ears perked up. His head whiplashed sharply up, and his blue eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded Belle in silence for several long, agonizing moments. Belle swallowed, feeling her breaths catch in her throat.

A hateful disdain lingered on the Prince’s face, creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove near his mouth that did not flatter the man’s handsome features now. But it was more than that.

There was a tenseness the Prince was not even trying to mask. She backed away, fumbling for the doorknob of the library. Nothing about this was making sense to her. Not his curling fists or the anger that radiated from his skin. Those cerulean blue eyes were like a knife in poor Belle’s skin, the sharp point digging even deeper. There was a horrible emptiness in his eyes, like a black void of sorts, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with this void, the Prince had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with—raw anger.

And this anger was directed towards her. The un-moving, glacier blue gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing. Like he was fighting against something and losing.

“Your Highness, I—if you will please excuse me, you seem…busy. I—If you have come to the cathedral to pray and give Alms, or—or speak with the Archdeacon, please…do not let me keep you, for I beg to take my leave of you now. I—I have to go….” Belle mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. Belle actively avoided the Prince’s gaze, wildly looking to the left and right for any means of escape. None that she could see.

And then, she remembered what she had been looking for all along. Dipping her head quickly in acknowledgement, she turned on the heel of her boot and made to turn her back on Adam to retreat to the safety of the library, where the door had a deadlock. But the Prince’s strong hand caught her wrist and gave a rather hard and violent squeeze, powerful enough to break the appendage if Adam was of a mind to, Belle knew.

Letting out a pained gasp, Belle inhaled sharply and she was not even aware she was holding in her breaths until she felt herself exhale a shaking, pained breath as Prince Adam cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her head slightly to the right, forcing the young woman to meet his cold, stony gaze. There was no warmth in the man’s irises that she could see. Belle flinched and shirked back slightly from his touch as the Prince’s pads of his thumbs and forefinger delicately stroked her cheek, with almost a surprising tenderness that was unlike him. Belle swallowed nervously, not sure what to make of it or how to respond to this.

“Whatever is your rush, little darling?” the Prince crooned, sounding highly offended. “I did promise to escort you to the library, after all, but you only just got here, milady…”

Belle let out a tiny moan of pain as his fingers curled into a possessive fist over her wrist and she felt her body being propelled backwards, until her back was pressed against the cold gray stone wall of the corridor. “I—I should go, Your Highness, for the—the hour is late, a—and you seem…” But her voice trailed off as she felt her chin being tilted upward again as he cupped her chin in his strong hand once more and forced the young woman to look up.

The young brunette could not bring herself to complete her sentence. Adam, however, had narrowed his eyes in intrigue and seemed to have other ideas in mind for the young brunette. His grip tightened and she could briefly smell the spirits of wine upon his breath.

She felt her left hand curl into a fist as she shook the overly long sleeve of her gown over her hand to conceal her gold ring. It was more than likely that the Prince had forgotten it, that he had seen it but a moment ago. Belle nervously craned her neck upward and looked into his eyes.

“Hmm?” The Prince encouraged, sounding more amused than anything else. “I seem _what_ , Belle? You can talk to me, darling. Don’t be shy. I merely wish to…get to know you.”

His tone still carried that slight inflection of mocking laced throughout. Belle swallowed nervously. So, he had forgotten, then, that she was already married, and she fought back her urge to scream, for she knew that if she did, the Prince would hit her…or worse, to keep her silent. Belle blinked back briny, salty tears, not wanting to think of what ‘worse’ would mean for her if she were to make a scene here and now with the man who could make life extremely miserable for her. It would likely not bode well for her at all. And besides, those other men, the soldiers, they obeyed the commands of their liege, and she knew she could not look to those men for help. She almost— _almost_ —would have preferred Phoebus’s help.

The young brunette inhaled sharply as she felt Adam’s strong hand drift to her hip, settling there and pulling her closer to him, so that she was resting against his lean, firm, and warm chest that was chiseled to perfection, and had the man’s personality not been so drastically different from that of Quasi’s, Belle would have been inclined to believe the two were one and the same. Belle breathed out slowly, willing the tension in her body to leave her, though it remained firmly put, refusing to leave until he was gone.

“What…” Belle anxiously bit her bottom lip, feeling how chapped and cracked it was and caring not an ounce. She was struggling to find the right words. For now, Belle decided to play along, in the hopes that it would let her leave him. “What is that you require of me, my Prince,” she said quickly, thinking fast. “Do you even want it, Your Highness? Has anyone asked you? What do you want?” Belle asked softly. There was no malice in her question. It was a genuine, honest inquiry. What he wanted of her here, Belle needed to know.

She was not quite certain what had prompted her to ask of the young Prince such a ridiculous question, but she knew the moment the words tumbled from her lips, that her words had hit their mark, and he looked stunned. She felt the Prince’s ironclad grip on her wrist slacken, and Belle watched, in awe and shock, as he took a few faltering steps backward. She took advantage of the opportunity to bolt forward.

The young woman made a beeline straight for the library, not caring what the answer to the question she asked of him would be. The man was a Beast, if ever such a thing existed.

Such a monster would never be able to be tamed, this much Belle knew to be a certainty. The man was a lost cause. Belle hesitated for just a fraction of a second, risking one last glance over her shoulder as she made for the library’s entrance, surprised to see Prince Adam glowering after her, his blue eyes wide and round with disbelief and awe, as though the man could not believe what the young woman before him had just asked.

Perhaps that was the first time someone had asked such a question of the Prince. Something about the man’s eyes gave Belle pause, and she halted. How Adam’s eyes were…

Almost melancholic. _So, the monster feels after all. How endearing_ , Belle thought meanly, unable to keep the swirling vortex of evil, black, putrid, yet blissful thoughts of the young Prince suffering in the forefront of her mind, and she quickly steeled her face and set it to a look of ‘perfect impassiveness,’ and turned her back on the stunned Prince just down the hallway. Belle was not afraid to show this Prince Adam she was not afraid of him or any of his kind like him. Which was in actuality, a bold-faced lie. Inside, she was terrified of the man to whom would be her brother-in-law in a few nights.

But she could not allow herself to show it. She was a Dupont by marriage, and the women on Gaston’s side of the family were not cowards, nor was she.

Belle turned away and headed for the door, a hand outstretched, reaching towards the knob as though it were her final lifeline, that precious pathway to her sanctuary, which, in a way, Belle supposed that the library was. It was where she felt safest. Belle startled and jumped when Prince Adam asked of her a question that the young woman did not expect.

“You are married to that hunter that owns the tavern. Gaston?” Now, the Prince merely sounded curious. “Did you…enjoy it? Did the hunter…satisfy you, milady?”

There was a low purr to his voice, seductive and husky, as the realization of what he was asking Belle hit her like ice water. The young woman did not bother to correct the Prince that she had not allowed Gaston to lay but a single finger on her head since fleeing from Gaston's home and coming here, to the safety of Notre Dame, where, if she could help it, Gaston would never touch her again. She would never go back. She couldn't.

She startled, her hand fumbling as it faltered in trying to grasp onto the doorknob. She knew what Prince Adam was doing. He was stalling to keep her here. Anything to keep her talking. Still, something about the Prince’s condescending tone compelled the young woman to answer. “More than…more…” _More than you ever could, you beast_ , she thought angrily.

But that little thought, she dared not speak aloud, or else…

Belle did not want to know what ‘or else’ meant in this case. Presumably, nothing good. Belle’s hand grasped onto the doorknob, deciding it would be in everyone’s best interest if she were to calmly retreat from the situation before things escalated. Before things got beyond her measure of control. It would not do to draw attention—any _more_ attention—to herself tonight. Not now. Not like… _this_. Belle let out an understated sigh and made to enter into the sanctity of the church’s library when the harsh, grating bark of Prince Adam’s voice rendered the young brunette immobile, and she froze, unable to move at all.

“Do not walk away from your Prince, woman,” Adam snarled.

Belle felt the muscles in her back tense. _He’s beginning to sound like the nobles that would frequently pass through our village_ , Belle thought, frightened, her jaw muscles clenching, rooted shut, and a muscle in her eye twitched.

The Prince continued, his voice harder, rougher around the edges, clipped and tested.

“You have not been dismissed. Do you even know to whom you are speaking, woman?” His voice escaped him as more of a low warning growl, much like a dog would growl at a human when their prize bone was being threatened to be taken away from them, and Belle shuddered. She watched as the Prince breathed in a sharp breath that seemed to suck all the rest of the air in the hallway with it.

Suddenly, Belle felt as though she could not breathe, and Belle could feel the all-too familiar hot spark of anger, that fire seed, welling deep within the uncomfortable pit that had formed in her stomach, as it had been whenever she’d been forced to endure the worst of Gaston’s wrath back home, especially after the man had returned from the tavern drunk and barely able to make it through the front door before passing out cold, and she bit back her tongue in an effort to quell the several dozen remarks swirling around her head.

However, before the young brunette could so much as stop herself, the words just…poured out. “I know _exactly_ who you are, Your Highness.” Her voice became steel as she taunted the Prince. _The arrogance of this man_ , she thought. Belle balled her hands into fists at her side, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid and tense as her posture straightened and she held her head taller. “You, Your Highness, are a miserable maggot, a whining little boy who seeks nothing but death at the hands of yourself. You tax our villages until the poor are starving and left with nothing until they starve to death or turn on each other, fighting for mere scraps of food, forced to eat nothing but scraps and garbage, and all so that you can fund your lavish parties. Such an affair would feed our village for an entire two years, Highness,” she growled, though there was no mistaking the sadness in her tone. Belle ground her teeth in anger and continued. “You are _nothing_ , Prince. You are _weak_ …”

Belle knew the minute those words tumbled out of her mouth, resonating in the air like a deathly poison, that they’d hit their mark, for this arrogant, spoiled Prince was unselfish and unkind to others, and Adam was clearly a man who was not used to someone—let alone a woman—speak back to him.

She whirled around and bolted for the library’s door, wrenching it open violently with full intent to slam the door in the Prince’s face and lock it, and as a result of how her mind reeled in fuming, silent anger, she did not hear the footfalls shuffling behind her. She was too busy fumbling on the wall, groping for a nearby lit torch, when a pair of strong hands pushed her into the wall in front of her. The Prince’s calloused, cold grip. It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her entire body. His chin rested upon her shoulder, and he breathed into her ear. “Let go of me!” she screamed, raising her voice, no longer caring if anyone heard.

Belle secretly hoped that the bell ringer would hear and come to her rescue. _He would never hurt me_ , she thought, turning her head away and clenching her eyes tightly shut.

“You’re rejecting me,” Prince Adam whispered, hissing it into the shell of Belle’s ear like a snake, causing a wash of cold to travel down her spine towards the tips of her toes in her boots. “Unfortunately for you, little dove, your act of defiance has piqued my interest, pet,” the Prince growled, and it was only when he shifted, pressing his body further into hers that she felt the back of her leg accidentally brush against places where she did not want to touch him, and she flinched. “I have taken an interest in you, sweet thing, and I always get what I want in the end. No one has ever dared to talk back to me as you have, my beloved…I think that I like you, _Belle_ , and for that, you will enjoy this…”

That was when the Prince’s lips clamped down onto her right earlobe. His teeth were light at first, and then he bit down harder. Belle stifled a low moan and squirmed against the wall, which only encouraged the Prince to behave even rougher, goading that monster that she knew lingered within his chest. Prince Adam bit down even harder, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the young brunette as she could hardly believe what was happening to her. The teeth quickly turned into a tongue, sliding over the rim of Belle’s ear, causing her to cry out in great pain. She felt her entire body begin to tremble beneath his touch. His two hands slid down her sides and landed on her waist, gripping almost painfully tight. Belle blinked back salty tears, not knowing what to do. It was clear that no help was coming for her.

“You asked me what I want,” Prince Adam breathed, his speech slightly slurred as he whispered it into the distraught girl’s ear. “I want…” _You, Princess_ , is what the Prince longed to say. _To feel how your lips move in a kiss. To see you bleeding_. _To take you away from Gaston._ “You know what it is that I want,” he growled, one of his hands drifting upwards and tugging at the brunette’s green linen gown.

White knuckled from clenching her fists too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, Belle’s rigid form exuded an animosity that was like a poison to her—burning, slicing, potent. Belle’s already pale face was absolutely white with rage and fear at what he was demanding of her, and when the Prince reached up to brush back a lock of dark hair over her shoulder, Belle swung back around and mentally snapped at him.

“How _dare_ you!” Belle shouted, ducking underneath Prince Adam’s arm and turning on the heel of her leather boot, taking a few faltering steps back from this insufferable Prince.

She clutched at the skirts of her simple green linen gown defensively, as if she thought that would prevent this _Beast_ , this Prince, from whatever it was he was about to do to her next. And what that would be, even Belle didn’t want to think of it, though she could tell by the wild, unhinged look in the Prince’s eyes that the only thought in his mind was claiming Belle as _his_. The thought of this Prince taking her over and over again until there was nothing left, with no regard for her feelings, left the young brunette speechless, at a loss for words.

And now, the young Prince himself seemed to be rendered mute as Belle violently shoved him backward as hard as she could, poking a finger in his chest as he advanced upon the girl. Like a wolf stalking its prey. He had not anticipated the young beautiful woman to be so strong, and Belle knew as he glowered at her, that she had effectively stunned the handsome young Prince.

“You might be a Prince, Your Highness, and you might have control over my family’s home and our lands, and this entire half of our village for one thing, but you must be completely _insane_ to think that I would do any such thing, no matter what you think of me. I would rather _die_ than _ever_ willingly lay with you! My heart belongs to…someone else…”

She visibly flinched and faltered as her voice trailed off, though she dared not complete that thought, for Belle knew if the Prince were to even catch one glimpse of Quasi, it would be over. The man would likely deem her insane and cart her off to D’Arque’s insane asylum. _Despicable_ , Belle thought, but did not finish her sentence, though her voice sounded hoarse as she had practically screamed it at the arrogant Prince in anger.

She ground her teeth and swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat that felt like it was constricting, cutting off her ability to properly get air to her lungs. She could only watch, feeling trapped and helpless as the Prince approached Belle once more, and this time, Adam did not restrain himself. Slamming his hand into the wall behind Belle’s head, he grabbed her jaw violently and forced her to look him dead center in the eyes, tilting her head upwards, facing him. Belle let out a tiny whimper as she looked into the Prince’s steely cold blue eyes, how Adam’s wide, open eyes reflected everything, and yet, saw nothing.

Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day stubble on his jaw was _not_ a good sign. Belle had been hoping to get through this little stroll to the library without an incident, and she wanted nothing more than to go and meet Quasi at the front like she was supposed to, and by now, given it was almost eight, she bit the wall of her cheek, hoping that he did not think that she had stood him up and gone against her word. Actually, she was not entirely sure exactly what it was that Belle had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness for whatever it was that she had done to upset Prince Adam, but the beginnings of a tentative understanding. But she knew as she looked into the fuming Prince’s eyes, those blue eyes holding total anger and humiliation, it hurt her.

The way his blue eyes squinted when Belle defiantly lifted her chin and glowered at Prince Adam reminded her of a pit viper’s slit-like pupils, right before they lashed out at their prey. She gulped nervously. A burning animosity was developing in those cobalt eyes of his, and Belle could tell she was likely the root cause of his problem, whatever that happened to be. And, if judging by the hungry look in his eyes, Belle was about to find herself in a spot of trouble she wasn’t sure she would be able to get out of, at least not without Quasi here by her side. Belle was quick to recognize that by talking back to this Prince as she had and rejected the man in cold blood, that she had made a very grave mistake. One that she would pay for.

And now she was in about to be in a spot of trouble.

Very. Deep. Trouble.


	20. A Close Call

**CHAPTER NINETEEN** **  
**

Belle swallowed nervously as she dared to look into this Prince’s glowering gaze. There was a certain amount of possessiveness and entitlement in the man’s cobalt blue eyes that darkened to an almost cerulean hue, a myriad of different shades of blue, the angrier this noble Prince got. Well. Noble or otherwise, he certainly had not behaved admirably towards Belle, and what was even worse, Belle believed, was what would Quasi think, if he were to discover the two of them in here alone, in a rather precarious position, no less? For this Prince Adam was not exactly shy towards her regarding his intentions, given the way he had unceremoniously shoved her against the wall of the library’s wall, the tip of his straight, rigid nose almost touching hers.

He was close enough to kiss her, and Belle flinched, sincerely hoping that he would not try it. She shirked away from the man’s touch, as far as she could press her back against the wall, not that it did her any good. “Don’t give me that look, mademoiselle. This is your duty as a woman is it not, what is expected of you. You learn to make the best of your given situation, and I can give you much more than anyone else can, my dear,” the Prince growled, his blue eyes narrowing, no doubt having noticed the look of daggers and look of perfect disinterest, a passive indifference that Belle had learned to perfect in the nine months of having been married to Gaston. “I can promise you, what follows next, you will enjoy,” he snarled, the edges of his lips curling upwards into a truly twisted smirk that in the half dim light of the torch flickering on the wall nearby, it gave the handsome blonde-haired Prince a truly frightening appearance. “No one is coming for you, sweet little dove,” he murmured, lowering his voice, and running the skin of his palm against her collarbones.

Belle’s insides went cold. She knew what was about to happen to her. Adrenaline flooded her system; it pumped and beat like it was trying to escape. She thought for sure her heart was going to explode, and her dark eyes went wide with fear. She wanted nothing more than to bolt from the cathedral’s library and run back up the stairwell to the second level and make for the safe sanctuary of Quasimodo’s towers, which was, admittedly these days, the only place that she felt safe. Protected.

And it was because of _him_. Instead, Belle was quite literally pinned down by the sheer force of the Prince’s hand against her chest. “Beast,” she hissed through gritted teeth, hoping that her eyes did not betray how frightened she was, and her lips parted openly slight as her ears perked up at a rustling noise coming from directly behind her, and she froze, biting the inside of her cheek, unaware that the briefest flickers of hope had passed through her dark umber eyes, which were darkening in color the more upset and panicked Belle became.

Maybe Quasi had discovered her missing and had come for her. She could only hope that he would because this Prince outweighed her by several pounds and looked to be much stronger. Belle blinked, momentarily broken out of her involuntary trance of the man’s crystal blue eyes, the only thing of this wretched Prince in front of her that showed any semblance of humanity. He might be handsome, but nothing about this man was redeeming. His appearance alone in it of itself was seductive. The man’s features were alluring, even Belle could not deny it.

But his eyes….it was as if God Himself had molded this man just to spoil those eyes. The cold blue glacier stare of this man, this stare full of intensity.

Of danger. He had a slender nose and a pair of thin, pink lips that were in the form of a twisted smirk. His tight jaw was an angular shape that was filled with little whiskers from two-day stubble, suggesting to Belle that he had not shaved, but would be needing to soon if he valued his appearance.

The Prince’s white linen shirt hung open slightly at the neckline to reveal the pale column of his throat, and the black vest he wore was made of pure wool with a satin lining, along with a dark black overcoat. His black leather breeches were form fitting, and his black leather boots practically gleamed.

“Let go,” gasped Belle, as the man’s powerful hand came upward to grip the column of her throat and wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed.

The Prince snorted in response to Belle’s plea, and if anything, that only made him squeeze harder. “You cannot walk away from this girl. You know it,” he growled, his words escaping him as a low barking growl that sounded more beastly than spoken word. Belle flinched at the harshness of his tone as the Prince spat the words as though they were poison upon his fluid tongue. “But if you insist…and try to fight me on this, darling, you are more than welcome to try, though you shan’t win, and I would be only too happy to…” He paused, as though searching for the right words, “how do you say…. ‘play along? This will go easier for us both if you stay quiet. Cooperate, girl.’”

Belle felt her dark eyes widen in shock and disgust, and her lips parted open just slightly to protest this, to scream for someone—anyone—to come help. She let out a muffled squeak of anger and fear as the Prince let out a growl as Belle shook her head no, seemingly disappointed with the young brunette, like he expected more.

“So be it then. You call me a Beast,” the Prince growled. “As you wish it, girl.”

With that said, the Prince lunged towards the young woman, and grabbed her arm, his other hand coming to wrap about her middle, his fingers clutching almost painfully on Belle’s waist, clinging to the fabric of her green linen dress for support.

“ **NO! LET GO**!” Belle screamed, letting out a pained gasp and wildly kicking out at the Prince with her leg, though he easily side-stepped the maneuver and she missed. She let out a gasp as the man moved behind her, crushing his rough and slightly calloused hand over her mouth. Belle lashed out, trying in vain to clamp her jaws down on the Prince’s hand and bite down as hard as she could in an effort to flee from this horrible situation, but it was no use. She let out a muffled little whimper.

Belle threw back her free arm towards her assailant, trying to hit the Prince with the crook of her elbow, pretty much anywhere that she could reach. Belle cried out as Prince Adam quickly grabbed hold of her flailing arm and violently pinned it above her head against the library’s wall. She winced and bit her tongue, hard enough that she tasted the metallic taste of iron as the warm blood welled on the hurt appendage.

She stifled her urge to scream. She hoped this brute hadn’t broken or dislocated her arm. That was going to be a hell of a thing to explain to the cathedral’s bell ringer.

_If_ he found her, which Belle was beginning to question if Quasi ever would. Belle winced as she heard this Beast of a noble Prince let out a threatening low warning growl that sounded more like the noise a dog would make when it cornered its prey.

“Now look at what you have made me do,” the Prince hissed. “I do not like to hurt pretty women such as yourself, mademoiselle. I do not want to hurt you, sweet angel, but if you refuse my advances, then you leave me no choice, Dupont. Oh yes,” he added, as the Prince took note of the dawning horror in the young woman’s eyes. “You are married to Gaston. I am…quite familiar with the man, I am afraid to say. What on earth am I to do with you, pretty little thing?” the Prince crooned, reaching up a delicate hand and caressed her right cheek with the back of his smooth palm.

Prince Adam whisper hissed his words through gritted teeth into the shell of her ear. It sent a shiver of revulsion and fear down the young brunette’s spine as she looked towards the left and right of the library, anywhere but to the Prince in a panic.

The Prince sighed, emanating a tense exhale of frustration and cocked his head to the side as he regarded Belle. His hand that had been caressing her cheek almost tenderly so, the intimacy of the gesture throwing her off and catching her off guard, had now wandered to the back of her skull and had found purchase in her dark hair.

He tugged on it violently and jerked her head backwards, exposing the pristine, unmarked flesh of her neck, though the Prince felt himself sneer as he glanced at the red markings his fingers had left upon her neck, so now Adam could no longer say she was untouched. “But you really are a pretty little thing, aren’t you. A fine specimen indeed,” the Prince growled, feeling his inner beast tug and pull deep within the confines of his chest, despite Adam’s feeble attempts to quell the overwhelming ache and heat he felt flaring within his chest. It took him a moment to realize it was desire.

“I think that I have…something to show you, Belle. May I call you that? If you are to be my Princess, then I suppose I ought to start calling you by your name, dear. I think you will be interested in what I have to offer you, sweet thing. Trust me, Belle.”

The words escaped him as a low growl and there was a twinkle of amusement in his cobalt blue eyes. Belle swallowed nervously and clenched her eyes shut, trying to take her mind away to someplace better, not wanting to see what was about to happen next, though she could feel it, as she felt the Prince’s fingers grip onto the fabric of her green dress. Had the Prince not been maintaining his firm grip upon her arm, she would have fallen. Belle felt her jaw lock up, feeling heartbroken, defeated, and stupid.

She should have known better than to wait downstairs in the nave alone, but Belle had been under the impression that this cathedral, her sanctuary, was a safe haven. Belle should have realized that there was no place in this world that was safe.

But she had cared so much about having her own independence, and she had not thought that it would have perhaps been in her best interest to wait for Quasi in his bell towers, and venture out together, instead of separating like this, and now…

Now, her decision was coming back to haunt her. Her heart pounded so loudly against her chest that she thought she would not have been surprised if the corded muscle within the confines of her chest just decided to break free of its own accord.

She was really truly starting to panic, something she knew was _not_ a good thing, for if she could not keep a level head, then she might die. This Prince, might not seem to want her dead, but if he kept behaving the way that he was and didn't start being more gentle with the young brunette, then there was a very high chance that the nobleman would end up killing her on accident. She was quite tiny and delicate and was not meant to be manhandled and treated so roughly. “Don’t,” she begged weakly.

"Be quiet, or the next thing I do is snap your neck," the Prince growled angrily in a hoarse whisper, as his hand came up to grip her by the arm. She flinched and clenched her eyes shut as his other hand drifted downward and came to rest upon her right thigh. This man really did not know how to keep his hands to himself. If her Papa were here, Maurice would have wrung the man's neck without so much as giving it a second thought for daring to lay a finger on his daughter.

Or even Gaston, to protect his wife. Belle let out a choked gasp as his hand grazed against the skin of her prominent collarbones and came up to wrap around the pale column of her throat, not quite tight enough to cut off the young woman's air supply, but hard enough to enforce his intended message: C _ooperate. Or else._

It was more than enough to coerce and scare her into submission, as she knew that the large brute of a man could easily snap her neck or strangle her quite easily, and probably wouldn't bat an eyelid over it. "Wh—what do you want with me? What is it? I—I can't breathe…" her voice cracked and trailed off as she blinked back briny, salty tears. "Please…l—let me go. Y—you know this isn't right…"

"Shh…" he soothed, and Belle felt her eyes grow impossibly wide and round with shock. He did it again for good measure, and the second shushing of her muffled whimpers and quiet cries for mercy sent tremors of fear down her spine, that it was a wonder she could still stand upright.

Belle squeezed her eyes shut and shrunk back, coughing, and bringing her hands up towards the Prince’s burly chest, shoving him away. "Get off of me!" she cried, her voice shaking with anger and fear. "Th—that hurts! You're hurting me, please…stop…" she begged pitifully. The Prince was putting all his strength he had into subduing her and keeping her effectively pinned against the wall, preventing her escaping. "D—don't do this. I—I beg of you. Just let me go!"

"Shh," he smiled. "You're such a delicate thing. Like a little bird. I won't hurt you if you stay quiet. I could, but I won't do it. It would be very easy for me to and not so pleasant for you. I promise you, Belle, you'll enjoy what comes next if you stay still. You need not be scared. I promise, I won't hurt you unless you make me," he commanded curtly.

"Wh—what are you doing to m—" But Belle was cut off with a shaking, pained whimper as the Prince leaned down, violently pressing his own mouth against Belle’s, forcing his tongue past the girl's lips and teeth, and his right hand came to grope and paw at her right breast. Belle’s eyes flung open, wide in surprise and disgust, her hands trembling at her sides, unsure of what to do. What in seven hells was she supposed to do in this situation? Fight back? Bite down on his lip?

She felt herself shiver and let out a shaking breath as Prince Adam’s passionate, unwanted kiss continued. His tongue pushed itself past hers, deep and forceful, his right hand running down the side of her dress. The man's hands were already attempting to wander to places on her body that she did not want to be touched, but even as she squirmed underneath him, Belle knew there was no way out of this but to let him. Maybe if she just closed her eyes and took her mind away to a happier place, and let him do whatever he wanted, then it would be over. " _Please_! D—don't do this, I—if there's any good left in you, please…I have done nothing to you! Please…let me go!" Belle pleaded, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

"Shut. Up." The Prince growled, his teeth grinding in anger, and he drew back his hand and backhanded the young brunette across the cheek, eliciting a pained cry of surprise from the inventor’s daughter. "Quiet. The next time my hands flies, I won't be so…forgiving…" The slap was as loud as a clap and stung Belle’s face.

It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her eye was a small cut where the man's ring had caught her. She staggered backwards, clutching her face, eyes watering, tears pouring down her face. Her eyes flung open as the sound of something moving coming directly behind the Prince reached her ears.

" **NO**! **LEAVE HER ALONE!"** A loud baritone voice rent through the otherwise silent deserted library, save for the Prince’s grunts as the stranger's strong hands fumbled with the lacing of her dress and Belle muffled whimpers. Whoever had shouted, the voice rent the air, the noise becoming a violence in the bitter Paris breeze that wafted through the cathedral. What was once silent had now become polluted with rage. "What is the _meaning_ of this?" the stranger's voice growled, and Belle repressed a shiver that almost traveled down her spine. "She has done nothing wrong! You would treat a woman this way, you bastard?"

"I'm punishing her," The Prince retorted coldly, all the while never once removing his unwavering gaze from Belle. Everyone tensed, even the Prince as his blue eyes narrowed and his head whiplashed upward to regard the other male voice. Someone was standing directly behind them, shrouded in shadow, though currently blocked by the Prince standing directly in front of her, rendering Belle unable to make out any details of the man's face. The man stifled a growl. "Your loud mouth seems to have saved you this time, unfortunately, Belle, though if you'd just kept quiet you and I could have gotten better acquainted with one another, beloved angel of fire…" the Prince whisper hissed into the shell of the young woman's ear, violently shirking away as the man standing behind came to grip the Prince by his right shoulder and violently wrench him away from Belle. "But I'll find you again later. I don't want to disappoint you, Belle. Or myself. I _know_ you. I know what you are, and where you live, Little Mouse. Don't think that I don't. I'll find you, come back to whatever wretched room in this place that you sleep, steal a kiss," he breathed, his dark eyes wild, unhinged. "I'll find time to finish this…"

But she did not hear whatever the Prince said next, as a loud guttural warning growl erupted from the second man’s throat Belle let out a startled whimper of fright and cowered in the corner of the library as the man, still hidden in the shadows, and the young woman did not know who threw the first punch, but suddenly, the Prince’s fist was slamming into the new stranger's face while his sank into the shorter man's stomach. The two men stumbled apart for a brief second to catch their breaths before diving back at each other, their eyes narrowed in determination.

The other dodged the Prince’s fist as the other man let out a low threatening growl from the back of his throat and came up with his own. For a brief instant, the Prince’s cerulean dark eyes widened before the other man managed to heft his fist back and sent the Prince sprawling to the floor, the noble coughing and struggling to get up.

Belle hesitantly lifted her gaze and exhaled a shaking sigh of relief, feeling the tension leave her as she breathed out slowly. “Quasi,” she breathed, never so glad to see the cathedral’s bell ringer in her life. She glanced over her shoulder towards the Prince, who was, it seemed at least to her, for the moment, unconscious and unmoving. “Y—you did not have to hit him so hard. You really think that this won’t have consequences, my friend? Y—you hit a _Prince_!” she protested, wide-eyed and in awe of the man’s almost god-like strength as she turned back towards the bell ringer.

She was not at all sure she liked the expression in his eyes, for they had darkened to a cerulean hue that she had witnessed forming in the Prince’s eyes only moments ago, and she drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs and held it as she watched as the bell ringer almost growled with the effort to restrain himself from continuing, though it seemed to be enough for Quasi to watch as the man’s chest slowly rose and fell, though the noble Prince that had just tried to accost Belle made no move to get up. “But…you did save my life,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

The poor bell ringer was looking so shocked and slightly offended at the thought that he wouldn’t, and his expression would have been comical if not for what had almost happened, and Belle did the only thing she could and responded swiftly in an effort to diffuse the tension by giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

Belle watched as Quasi’s head whiplashed sharply upwards and his normally kind blue eyes remained still quite angry with the Prince, no doubt adrenaline still coursing through his veins at what he had almost walked in on, though if she was not mistaken, his expression softened as he looked at her, and the inventor’s daughter could practically see the man’s rage dissipate, as he without so much as a single word took her hand and led her away from the library and out towards the front doors of the cathedral’s entrance, waiting until they were outside on the front steps to speak, intent on leading her away from the Prince, far away as possible before anything else could happen to her tonight. Belle could not quite shake the feeling of warmth that spread throughout her chest and down to the tips of her toes as she felt the surprisingly smooth skin of his palm in her own, not able to discern exactly what the feeling was, but she enjoyed it.

The inventor’s daughter allowed the cathedral’s bell ringer to lead her down the front steps of Notre Dame de Paris, despite the horrors of what had almost happened to her just now, she allowed the faintest ghost of a smile to cross her features as she continued to enjoy the feeling of his hand in hers, even going so far as to interlock their fingers and give his hand a light, reassuring squeeze, as if to say to him thank you. Belle did not speak much as Quasi led her down the step and towards one of the winding side streets of Paris, seemingly to head towards the River Seine, or so he said, instead her mind wandering to thinking of how nice it felt to be holding Quasi’s hand. She did not allow thoughts of the Prince to invade her mind anymore.

Not when she was holding his hand and had the sweet, melodic, tenor-like tones of his magnificent voice to call upon as she allowed the man to lead her to a new hope.

A better future, one that she would mold herself, and somehow she knew that as long as she was with him….everything would be okay.


	21. By the Seine

**CHAPTER TWENTY** **  
**

Quasi had to practically growl with the effort to restrain himself as surges of adrenaline coursed through his veins at the thought of what he had almost walked in on. When Belle hadn’t greeted him at the cathedral’s entrance, he had begun to grow worried. He had not expected to walk into the Archdeacon’s library and find… _that_.

The bell ringer clenched his jaw in anger and ground his teeth in agitation, the heat speckling along his cheeks as he could practically feel Belle’s piercing stare burning a hole into the back of his skull, hotter than any branding iron for cattle, sheep, or horses could mark. “Stop.” The word escaped Belle’s lips as a plea, and it was with a great amount of effort that she removed her hand from his ironclad grip, wincing and gingerly flexing her fingers as she noticed the red finger-shaped markings around where the Prince from just moments ago had attempted to grab her.

Belle exhaled a shaking breath to calm her nerves. Another. A third. The next few days, possibly weeks in the cathedral’s sanctuary, Belle realized, would be spent as a developing portrait, a grand one, the developments and changes happening slowly, and over time, though his agreement to show her the Seine tonight was a rather big chance, and Belle was surprised that he had shown no reluctance of any semblance of hesitation to leave Notre Dame.

“Talk to me,” she encouraged, reaching out a gentle hand to rest on his shoulder, near his hump, and she was surprised, hurt and confused when he flinched away, though his reaction was not one of anger, but of disgust.

It seemed to take Quasi ages to find his voice, and when he regained control over his words, Belle flinched at the unbelievable harshness that lingered. He did not necessarily shout at her, but he wasn’t pleased with her.

“Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” he demanded, his tone clipped and hard. “I should have come sooner, I—if you would have _waited_ for me.”

“But I _did_ wait!” Belle protested, crinkling her nose in disgust, and then quickly realizing what that might look like to her, she let out a sigh. “I waited for a half hour for you downstairs in the nave. I waited for you to come. You said to meet me at eight, a—and when you did not, I thought perhaps you got held up or were no longer interested, but I did not expect or anticipate running into trouble, much less that of a _Prince_ ,” she snapped.

She spat the last word as though it were poison that had settled upon her tongue and the appendage felt thick and swollen in her mouth, and she could taste the acidic bile that coated the back of her throat and she swallowed back her urge to be sick as she thought of what she had been lucky to narrowly escape from. The Prince in the library had behaved despicably towards her, and this behavior tonight only intensified her dislike for the aristocracy, wondering what in the seven hells her husband would ever seek to regain status and favor within the crowd of Parisian aristocrats.

“He’s rather _handsome_ , isn’t he?” Quasi’s words escaped him as a low growl from the back of her throat, the jealously dripping off his words like poisoned honey, enough to cause Belle to blink owlishly at the young man.

Belle felt her eyebrows furrow into a frown as she watched as Notre Dame’s bell ringer turned away from her and hung his head in shame, not bothering to card back that one stubborn lock of coarse fiery red hair that had a bad habit of falling into his one good eye, that acted as a barrier, a shield between himself and that of the outside world which he did not want to see.

She felt her frown deepen, a lock which did not suit the inventor’s daughter at all, for lines became itched upon her otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove formed near the edges of her mouth, which curved her lips downward as she glowered at Quasimodo, wondering where this was coming from. Such an outburst and his tone to be tinged with just the slightest touch of jealousy laced with melancholia was not at all like him.

“So, that’s what this is about? You are jealous of that Prince. You've nothing to fear, my friend, for that prince is an arrogant, spoiled son of a...” she sighed, pinching her temples, unable to finish her vulgar thought. The young man’s silence was deafening. Of course. She ought to have expected as much from him. It should have been obvious to her that her new friend would suffer a bout of insecurity regarding his looks.

Belle heaved another sigh, a look of exasperation on her face and drew in a sharp breath of chilly autumnal air that pained her lungs as she lifted her chin to gaze at the River Seine. “Oh, wow,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, instinctively reaching for his hand was felt an immense disappointment when the bell ringer shirked away from her touch.

The River Seine was like a semi-molten mirror. Belle could feel its coolness even before she knelt at the riverbank to flick the water with her hand, sending droplets scattering over the surface like rain. Its depth was rather deceptive, mostly because for the moment, it was as clear as a mountain spring. Every rounded stone on the bottom, every fish, was rendered in perfect clarity, Belle thought for a moment she had been granted the sight of God Himself. The grass on the bank was sun-warmed beneath her feet from the fading light of the sun which had set long ago and dipped beyond the horizon.

From the night air alights a duck, and Belle jumped back a few paces, hand over her heart and let out a startled cry of surprise. Ducks and beetles. The two things she tended to forget could fly. It landed with a splash, making a long wake behind it, the ripples spreading out, meeting the banks before rebounding and fading. Underneath the surface, its legs were working hard to move it along at the speed it was going to hunt for fish.

The effort never showed on its little face, but then, ducks, Belle knew, had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Still though, it momentarily drew her attention away from the cathedral’s bell ringer, a welcome distraction after…after…what had almost happened to her but a mere half hour ago. She watched, biting the wall of her cheek as the duck swam to the far side of the riverbank and out of Belle’s line of sight. She inwardly groaned and was forced to return her attentions to her friend, who had not once taken his eyes off of her, for she could feel him staring at her backside.

Belle swallowed past the lump forming in her throat and tersely, her gaze flickered between Quasimodo’s and the edge of the River Seine. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger and sat at the river’s edge, content to look out at the moonlight’s beams casting its pearls of light down onto the water’s surface. Perhaps if he did not have to look at her while they spoke, then he would become more comfortable around her and open up and confide in her whatever it was that was ailing his troubled mind, though Belle had a pretty good reading on him by now, and guessed.

“You truly have such a low opinion of yourself, my friend?” she asked, actively averting his gaze and bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of her knees, just as a gentle breeze kissed her hair and pinked her cheeks. “You are…you are jealous of that Prince, Quasi.”

It was not a question, coming from her, and she expected an answer. Belle watched as the cathedral’s bell ringer swiveled his head so sharply to the left to regard her and was currently eyeing her as though she had grown a pair of horns that had suddenly sprouted out of her head, as if by witch’s curse. He gestured towards the contusion over his brow bone and scoffed.

“I do,” he growled bitterly, which sent a swell of pain to Belle’s heart. “Do you not see what I am, Belle?” he remarked dryly, and the inventor’s daughter could not mistake the underlying tones of bitterness in the disgruntled bell ringer’s voice. “I am the ‘Almost-Made.’ The ‘Monster’. Shall I continue? This list of mine that I’m spouting to you on our walk is quite long. Please don’t make me tell you the rest, Belle…I beg of you.”

Belle stuck out her bottom lip and bit down hard in a slight pout. She glanced down nervously and fidgeted with the gold wedding band Gaston had bequeathed her and nervously slid the long trumpet sleeve of her gown over her hand, effectively concealing the piece of jewelry from his vision.

Were that she could fling this damn ring in the River Seine right now, she would, but…but…she could not do it, for she had promised her Papa.

Belle pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “The people might call you all of those things, Quasi,” she murmured darkly, lowering her voice as they passed by a pair of late evening wanderers, also aimlessly walking about the edge of the River Seine, though she did not spare them a second glance, though they shot the pair of them curious looks and gawked at him.

“And?” Quasi prodded gently, quirking a thick brow Belle’s way.

“And,” emphasized Belle, attempting not to allow traces of annoyance intermingled with her hopelessness at her predicament seep through her tone, though the young woman feared that was already too late, for even she could hear it within, and she cringed. "But that does not make you any less of a man, Quasimodo. You bear the same burdens the rest of us do. You share similar thoughts, feelings. You want more of life. You are a man, my friend. All of those things. Whereas _I_ ," she commented, hating hearing the dip and crack in her voice as she briefly looked away, "I have no choice.”

Belle fell silent, flinching only once as she felt the nails of her hands dig into the skin of her palms, hard enough to pierce the supple, unblemished flesh and bleed, though she felt her ironclad grip slacken and she relaxed.

Belle glanced down and sideways out of her peripherals towards Quasi and for a moment, she was startled. The left side of her new friend’s face, more specifically, the left side of his faint pink lip tugged upwards, creating a sinister smirk on his face, casting an eerie spell of lust to any pairs of wandering eyes that dared to look his way. "Ah, yes. The Monster and the woman with no choice. Just look at us," Quasi growled irritably. "We are perfect for one another. Truly."

Belle watched with no small measure of growing amusement in her eyes, though her face remained neutral, for she had, during her time spent in the company of men like Gaston and that wretched Prince, learned how to perfect the look of passive indifference. It was perhaps her only chance at staying alive this long, really.

She watched as the bell ringer cast a strange, longing glance backwards towards Belle and blushed and promptly looked away.

Belle repressed the urge to roll her eyes. She had seen that look all too well in the young man’s eyes, and in the eyes of her husband as well. The look of lust. Not love, no. Though at least, she suspected what the redheaded bell ringer felt for her was not love, but…but.

 _But_. The one thought that had been plaguing her thoughts more than most as of late. That familiar prickling feeling of doubt that pierced her skull hotter than any branding iron for cattle and sheep could ever hope to. _But_ she wondered if there was an element of Quasi that was not so bad. He had, after all, saved her life from the Prince.

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown as she contemplated this as they continued to sit at the river’s edge, watching the ducks. Belle blinked owlishly, startled out of the inner musings of her mind as she realized that Quasi had asked of her a question that she had missed.

"My apologies, my friend," she stammered, dipping her head in acknowledgement towards Quasi, and then her embarrassment deepened as she realized that this gesture perhaps only made things even worse and she had somehow offended him by it. "I meant no offense. I am afraid that I was woolgathering. Please repeat that."

Quasi scowled, though there was no mistaking the look of jest that briefly lit up the man’s face, making the bell ringer look, for just a split second, dare Belle even think this next scandalous thought, almost… _handsome_.

The bell ringer huffed in frustration, though it did not sound to Belle as though the man were too entirely perturbed at her lack of attention.

"I _said_ ," he repeated, his annoyance seeping through his tones, "that I will do what I can to ensure you are comfortable as long as you’re in Notre Dame with m-me a—and the other caretakers, but I can only do so much. I can only ask that you only venture to the places that you are permitted, such as the kitchens o—or my tower. There are, however, certain…places that remain off limits. Have you ventured anywhere that anyone might have seen you? M—Master’s study in the church is o—off limits to everyone, I’m afraid."

Belle mutely nodded, her mind slowly processing Quasi’s words, only half-listening to him, if she was being honest with herself. She was becoming too fixated on his cobalt blue eyes, how they were a myriad of different hues.

Though she did her best to ignore the piercing stares, horrified whispers from some, others shot Belle Dupont sympathetic glances as they passed, she could not help but to wonder what Quasi really wanted of her. If his master, Judge Frollo, that brute, had ever asked of him what he wanted, though, if the current look on the man's face was anything for Belle to go off of, she highly doubted that.

Belle's frown deepened as she gripped her fingers together and glanced downward at the man that she knew she was slowly but surely developing feelings for, and she did not at all know how to take this revelation. She could not act upon her urges with him, for she was still married, and yet…it felt so… _right_. She could not help but to notice how his face had hardened, compared to this morning when she had last seen him.

 _If Gaston were to find out of this_ , she thought and repressed a moan as horrible images of her new friend suffering at her husband’s hand danced through her mind. She gulped and shook her head to clear her mind of the repulsive thought. As kind as Quasi was being to her, she knew that Parisian society would never condone such a match, as different as the man was.

Her father might, perhaps. He had the uncanny ability to see the good in everyone, even when and, perhaps especially most, when that person could not see it in themselves.

“Papa…” she whispered, biting the wall of her cheek as her heart gave a painful lurch at the thought of Maurice. She felt her face relax as the tension practically melted away from her shoulders as she glanced down her nose at the man. Strangely enough as it was, she found it easier to look upon Quasi now in his current state of disgruntlement as the man grumbled darkly to himself than before, when in the library and dealing with that vicious bastard of a Prince, when he had hardened and he had looked every bit the monstrous man Belle had heard rumors about.

The tension in the atmosphere began to rise, and Belle felt herself overcome with the overwhelming urge to apologize to Quasi.

"Quasi, I…" started Belle hesitantly, biting her tongue and swearing internally that she could taste the metal and iron that lingered upon her tongue, a sweet sort of bitterness, before she realized that she had bitten down hard enough on the tender appendage to draw blood.

She had to raise her voice slightly so as to capture Quasi's attentions.

"I must apologize to you again. I know that I ought to have waited for you a—and come up to your tower. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and reassure th—that you will not have to save me like that again.” Belle let out a muffled squeak of surprise and was taken aback as the cathedral’s bell ringer rolled his eyes, carded back that one stubborn lock of coarse, fiery red out so that it was out of his eyes and threw up his arms in exasperation and groaned out loud, much to Belle’s astonishment, before turning to regard the inventor's daughter with an immensely disappointed look upon his face.

It was almost as if he had expected better of Belle, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards into a scowl. A look that did not suit him at all.

"Belle. Don’t." The plea escaped from Quasi’s mouth as a low growl, and Belle could not quell the tremor of fear that traveled down her spine as the man fixed Belle with a strangely glacier-cold stare, no warmth in his eyes, and for a split moment, it was Belle who felt incredibly small. "If I hear you apologize to me one more time, I swear with God and the angels above as my witness, that I should throttle you with my own two hands," he growled angrily, his deep and yet smooth, melodious voice sounding quite languid but irritable as well. "We both know that you and I could never…we could never…” But he swallowed hard past the lump and promptly looked away from Belle. When he turned back to face Belle, there was a strange moisture glistening in his eyes that Belle did not know how to interpret. "You did not answer my question," came Quasi's voice again, breaking Belle's concentration as the young woman effectively tore her quizzical gaze away from the Seine. "Where have you ventured? How did the Prince find you?"

Belle startled, not having anticipated the man’s question. "The halls," she answered simply, after she had taken some time to form a reply as she cleared her throat in the process, well aware Quasi's uncharacteristically hard gazed remained fixated upon her as he awaited Belle's answer. "T'is true, my friend. I do not sleep well. I—I frequent your church’s library from time to time, Quasi. It is truly fascinating."

Belle inhaled a sharp breath of humid warm air that almost caused her to choke on it as she felt Quasi pause to consider his friend’s words.

"Is that the only place?" And before Belle could even answer, he asked a follow up question. "Our cathedral’s library. What do you think of it? It suits your needs? What troubles you so oft that you venture to the library at night when you cannot sleep?"

Now, Quasi sounded merely curious. By the Gods, what a question! Just the words themselves felt loaded, as if the man had loaded his list of questions into a crossbow and had the arrow pointed directly at Belle's heart. Where to start? _Everything_ ailed her. She would oft awake in the middle of the night, brow drenched in terror and a scream of anguish at her lips as she frequently revisited the black day of marrying Gaston Dupont.

Feeling him move on top of her the night of their wedding. Hurting her, bruising her, hitting her, disrespecting, and humiliating her in ways that even to this day she could not comprehend. Belle could not remember a night last when she had slept soundly in dreamless slumber, not awaking drenched in sweat, tears running in tracts down her pale cheeks. She furrowed her brows into a frown, looking away.

"Nothing troubles me. I just have trouble sleeping." Belle heard herself speak the words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, fully aware that she was literally lying through her teeth. But such could not be helped.

"Really. And reading helps?" Quasi sounded as though he did not quite believe her, though Belle was grateful that her new friend was seemingly choosing not to press the issue, and she felt an immense wave of gratitude overcome her chest, and a feeling that she could not quite place.

"It does. Yes. It calms me down." Belle replied, beginning to feel a little jittery and when she glanced down at her hands, she was hardly aware she had begun the incessant, unceasing nervous habit of fidgeting with her gold wedding band again, and bit the wall of her cheek, praying that Gaston would never find her here in the heart of Paris. "It distracts me, and stops me from thinking about—"

"About things you would rather not think of," Quasi interjected, right as Belle lifted her chin blearily to look over at the bell ringer in pure surprise. "It helps you to escape for a while." The man allowed a dark little chuckle to escape his lips as he regarded Belle in amusement, finally having reached the edge of the River Seine, and paused, looking up at Belle with something akin that could only be described as a newfound respect, maybe even pride.

"Y—yes," Belle breathed, not sure why she was confessing this to Quasi. There was a long uncomfortable pause, and Belle thought that if the tension in the arboretum would have been a visible color, then the air itself would have been scarlet.

There was so much that Quasimodo would not say, and though she did not want to go back to Gaston if she could help it, and what he would say if he were to learn of her new friendship with the church’s bell ringer, that did not mean that she was about to continue the long line of scorn and ridicule that Quasi had no doubt been on the receiving end for his entire life so far.

Finally, Quasi emanated a tense, slow exhale through his nose, effectively shattering the silence after several long, excruciating minutes spent in contemplative silence. "Belle. I know that I may not be much. I know that I cannot change…what I am,” he began hesitantly, sounding pained and refused to look at her. “I hope that…in time we can…we can be… that if you should have me, then I should like to sit by your side. As a…"

Here, Quasi's voice faltered and cracked, and Belle was apt to believe that the redheaded bell ringer had meant to say as her lover, but he didn't.

When he spoke again, he seemed to have found his inner resolve. "As a friend." Now, his voice was steady, and much more resolute.

Belle blinked, startled at the man's admission. However different and unique Notre Dame’s bell ringer, even Belle could not deny that the strange man standing in front of her was rather endearing towards her, and she was not about to continue the scorn and the jeering that Quasi had been subjected to his entire life. She bit her bottom lip and regarded Quasi in silence.

As shocking as his appearance was, Belle could sense the man had no malicious intent. At least…not towards her, and Belle felt the edges of her lips curl up into a smile, her first genuine smile since she had stepped foot into Notre Dame all those weeks ago. "I would like that very much, my friend," she responded warmly, her voice a soft susurration, little more than a flutter on the cool autumnal breeze that wafted through the night air, which rustled the skirts of her gown and kissed her hair and her cheeks, for a moment, reviving her shattered spirit.

Quasimodo was not necessarily the 'monster' that everyone made the poor man out to be, and yet, even now, as they stood here by the edge of the River Seine, watching the ducks float on the surface of the water, something within the confines of Belle's heart still harbored a twinge of caution towards Quasi, and she reviled this part of her mind.

She despised this feeling. Belle knew it was her wariness talking from all the terrible stories and rumors she was privy to about her new friend whilst living here among the cathedral, she picked up tidbits of gossip from parishioners during various Mass or Vespers appointments.

At her words, Quasi looked a little shocked, but less so than she had expected him to be, for Belle could discern that the young bell ringer had steeled himself, for she recognized the flashing of the man's eyes, how he had been preparing himself for Belle to claim that the sight of him revolted her. It did not, and it was because of her admission that a hesitant, crooked smile crossed his features and the pair sat in silence together for a while.

As friends. Finally, Belle could bear the silence no longer. “Do you think that the Prince will remember it was you who attacked him?” The question tumbled unchecked from her lips before she could stop herself. She bit the wall of her cheek and waited for the man to answer her.

Quasi snorted and rolled his eyes. “I hope so. If he forgets, then I’ll just have to remind him again.”

He turned to look at Belle and she was surprised to see that the young man had such a look of shock on his face that she snorted and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to cover it, though the sound had already escaped her and it was too late to take it back, which in turn prompted Belle to erupt into a giggling fit.

Her laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite the young woman's adult years. 

It came to Quasi's ears as a tickle and bounce—and the only thing his rocky heart could do was join her. Her laughter was the summer rain and the birdsong too, and every time Quasi heard it, no matter the weather, the sun itself brightened and warmed. It was as if her sound lifted a veil from our eyes and allowed the church’s bell ringer to see the world more clearly. Quasi thought it funny how laughter can do that, those honest rumblings of the soul. Belle had told him just the other day that she had always hated her laugh, but even now, as he heard Belle giggling through her nose, snorting adorably, he fell a little harder for her.

Belle continued her giggling, the sound like a brook flowing merrily through a well-lit wood. Her laugh was like a waterfall, free, flowing.

And Quasi could not help but to laugh along with her, becoming lost in the moment of sitting with the woman to whom by the end of the morrow, he would be married to. He did not know how long they sat like this.

“I—I’d like to…to try something I—if I may,” Belle began hesitantly, painfully twisting her fingers together and fidgeting with her wedding ring, careful to keep the long flared tow sleeve of her green gown hidden over her hand. _By the gods, am I really about to do this to him? Am I?_ Her stomach swooped and churned, creating an uncomfortable pit in the depths of her stomach and the voices of her conscience were screaming at her to leave.

Quasi mutely nodded, not at all sure how to react to the sudden, quiet shift within Belle’s personality. She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She licked her lips to moisten them, but nothing came. Her throat ached and felt dry, and the churning waves of nausea in her stomach deepened. Belle knew what she wanted was wrong, that to want to be with someone as…unique, as the cathedral’s bell ringer, and she, a married woman at that, was committing a cardinal sin, one that would surely see her excommunicated from the Catholic Church, but if this was sin, then so be it.

Exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, Belle clasped her hands on either side of Quasi’s face, and he hesitantly met Belle’s hardening, intense gaze, though he did not dare avert his gaze. The swirls of emotions swimming in Belle’s eyes made him ponder what the hell it was that she wanted with the likes of him.

A look that could only be described as desire and affection met his quizzical gaze, unblinking and unwavering. However, before the bell ringer could ponder about it further, whatever it was that his friend wanted to try, she cradled his face in her hands and covered his mouth with a hungry kiss. As their lips met, it felt like he was walking on air. It was witchcraft, magic, the way Belle’s lips connected with his. Her mouth was so warm, the caress of her lips softer than he could have ever imagined, and he opened his mouth with a low, surprised moan. He tried to kiss her back, but a woman had never kissed him in this way before, and he had no idea what he was doing. Sparks felt like they flew in every direction. Belle’s hands looked like they were moving of their own accord, her hands wrapping around Quasi’s neck as she pulled him closer, closing off the gap of space.

Her hands on the back of his neck played with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on Quasi’s face as it startled to tickle and she pulled apart.

As they parted, Belle saw her friend’s azure blue eyes sparkle with an emotion she had always longed to see there, directed at her. _For_ her.

He wrenched apart from the embrace violently, and the hurt and shock must have registered on Belle’s face, for Quasi felt his drain of what little color remained and he stammered, immediately trying to correct himself. The bell ringer wrung his hands together painfully and felt his nails pierce the thick leather hide of the fingerless gloves he wore on his hands. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and when he tried to speak, it was as if there was a gag on his mouth. “I—I wh—what was that…?” he asked hoarsely, allowing the pads of his fingertips to ghost along Belle’s cheeks.

“A kiss.” Her answer was immediate and simple, and the edges of her lips curled upwards in a soft smile, her light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as her blush deepened. “D—did I…did I hurt you? Did you like it?”

Quasi bit his tongue, not sure if he should answer truthfully. Honestly, he had expected her to pull away the minute her lips had pressed against his. To explain away the slip in her balance, though it had not happened.

Belle felt her lips part open slightly to answer, but before she could do so, the sound of someone coughing to clear their throat interrupted what she had been about to say, that yes, she had liked it, and had been about to ask him if he would let her do it again, when the disgruntled noise came again.

Blinking owlishly, she craned her neck upwards, having to see who it was, and felt her heart give a painful lurch and her stomach churned again.

Waves of heat coursed through her blood, a cold sweat glistening in her rapidly paling and gaunt features. Her eyes sunken and her skin sallow and clammy, she swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat as she found herself looking in the eyes of her husband.

"Belle. Found you." Her name escaped Gaston's lips as a low threatening growl, and the way his hands balled into fists as his side suggested he was not at all pleased to see her in this manner.

When he finally spoke, his cold baritone voice was flat, his blue eyes listless, and when he turned at last to face Belle, there was no trace of tears or any indication that he was upset with his wife for fleeing their home, not in his eyes or in track marks on his paling face. His eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard. In that moment, Belle knew Gaston was already far away.

Once more she was the prey, and he the hunter, and she was trapped. Belle swallowed nervously as she watched as the whites of his eyes almost seemed to darken the angrier her got as his gaze flitted from her to Quasi.

Her husband’s lethal stare felt piercing and painful, as if his glare were tearing Belle’s heart apart with a blinding stare devoid of warmth and love.

She swallowed, her throat feeling like it was on fire and in agony as she looked up at Gaston, this time, with widened, fearful eyes, completely ignoring Quasi’s hand settling into a firm grip on her shoulder, as if he thought the simple gesture was enough to protect Belle from Gaston.

But it wasn’t. Belle let out a muffled whimper as a final glance at her husband’s furious eyes confirmed her possible outcome.

Gaston had finally found her. And he was going to kill her.


	22. A Dying Light

**A/N: Okay, so you're probably going to need some tissues for this one and be prepared to really hate Gaston for the bastard that I've turned him into. I fought really hard with this chapter re-writing it before I was even remotely satisfied with it, and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it, but it is what it is. Even my 'Disney' stories tend to take a bit of a darker turn, since I'm sort of trying to match them to the tone of the Twisted books' series.**

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

" _So_ ," Gaston growled, his voice dangerously low and quiet as he seethed, "here we are, sweet Belle. You are…unfaithful to me. This is rather embarrassing, for me, little wife, as it is for you," he snarled coldly. Piling reproach after reproach upon his wife, he added adultery to his wife's list of faults. One that he could not let go unpunished.

And this was the beginning of the end. He was more than maddened. He was enraged. Gaston fumed, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he began to grow silent and unresponsive, despite Belle's quiet pleadings that this was nothing. As if he did not hear his wife. She was unfaithful to him, and oh, in such a low way with this…this monster, who was an assault on the senses. Such a shame.

His gaze drifted back towards that of his wife and he shuddered, feeling his insides curdle like milk with lemon. This—this _bitch_ , she was the acid in what otherwise would be so heavenly. What Belle had just done, ripped out his heart straight from the confines of his burly chest—wounded him more than anything else she could have ever done.

"B—but… _how_?" Belle swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat, her voice coming out as a mere hoarse cry of pain. Her throat felt like it was on fire.

Gaston grinned, his lips tugging upwards into a twisted sneer that chilled both Belle's and the bell ringer's insides and rendered them frozen, rooted to their spots.

"You forget I'm a hunter, sweet Belle. I've been following you, watching you for quite a while now, wife. It was just a matter of…finding the right time to deal with your _betrayal_ ," he growled through gritted teeth as he stalked towards Belle.

Belle felt a shudder travel down her spine, and she felt Quasi's grip upon her waist tighten, his fingers coming up to grip almost painfully tight on the material of her gown. "You—th— _that's not true_!" she cried, tears streaming down her ashen face. Belle could not believe her husband. She would not. This could not be true…

" _No_?" he shouted, his face reddening in anger. "Then what do you call _this_?" he growled, gesturing a shaking finger towards the redheaded bell ringer. Gaston knew as his gaze remained fixated on his wife's that he would never whisper words of love to Belle Dupont again. As he thought of his wife's betrayal, his lips curled upwards into a twisted sneer and his nostrils flared, like that of a bull's.

His mind felt as if stone were coursing through it instead of blood. His once pleasant memories of Belle during their courtship prior to their marriage now felt as if they were tarred, disfigured into something truly grotesque that currently had nothing to do with the accursed redhaired wretch that had stepped behind Belle, a gloved hand on her shoulder. Gaston kept his gaze off of Belle, he could no longer bear to look his wife's way, because he believed if they made eye contact, he thought he might vomit. Disgust. Total disgust at the immense betrayal, the wound she had inflicted upon his tender heart.

"What to _do_ with you, little wife. What to do, what to do…A _lesson_ needs to be taught here. I think you need a little _reminder_ of whom you belong to, precious girl, would you not say this to be the case?" he added in a mock jovial tone, glaring at her.

Belle swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat and let out a pained wince as Gaston's strong hand curled around her wrist and wrenched her to her feet, ignoring the bell ringer's rapidly flushing face as his features paled in anger and misunderstanding. But Belle momentarily shoved aside thoughts of Quasi for the moment and kept her fearful gaze continuously fixated upon that of her husband's.

Gaston's wide open eyes reflected everything and saw nothing. Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day stubble on his jawline was not a good sign.

Belle had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness for running off, but the beginnings of a tentative reconciliation, or at least the ability to get the hunter and former war captain to see how he treated her was wrong. But now as she clenched her eyes shut and let out a pained muted whimper, Belle simply prayed to get away from him as soon as possible without giving Gaston a reason to hate her all the more. "I—it's not…what it looks like, Gaston. Punish me for this," she begged.

Gaston bristled at her words, his neck stinging with heat at the declaration of his wife's name. When he'd witnessed her in the company of this—this creature, this demon, and then for her to kiss it, how he had wanted to wrench her away right then and there, to satiate himself as he would press his lips against hers, to pour all he was within her as if she were the only wench left in Paris. She was _his_ wife, no one else's. "At last," he breathed, feeling his eyes widen as the night chill tousled his black ponytail. "I've spent…weeks, _months_ , searching for you, little dove, and now… _this_ …you know that I can't let this go unpunished, sweet little _wife_."

At hearing her husband's words, she felt her stomach give a painful lurch and the bile creep up her throat. Belle covered her mouth as swells of nausea clawed at her throat, and she tried to force down the bile, but it was too late. Her stomach contracted so violently that she clawed away from the bell ringer's hold as whatever she had had this morning to break her fast spewed out of her coughing, choking mouth. Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forcing everything out.

Her face was white and dripping bile, sweat, and tears. She lurched forward and sunk to her knees. The pungent stench invaded her nostrils and she heaved and gagged again, even though there was nothing left to go. Shaking, she wiped at the back of her mouth with her sleeve, wishing she had a handkerchief, and Belle whimpered as a strong hand cupped at her chin and Gaston forced her to meet his gaze. Belle exhaled shakily through her nose as she could feel Quasi's strong gloved hands come up to wrap around her waist, one of his hands rubbing comforting circles in the small of her back, the other brushing her dark hair off her shoulders.

"The devil take you," Gaston spat, his strong hand practically crushing Belle's chin in his ironclad grip, sounding thoroughly revolted with his wife. His cerulean blue eyes narrowed as he glanced towards Quasimodo and Belle, and his face paled even further in anger. "It is not enough that I find you in the company of a _monster_ , but now _this_ ," he growled, ignoring the fuming look in the redheaded bell ringer's eyes. "You leave me no choice, Belle. This…this is for your own good. I did say it."

Belle blearily blinked and tried to focus her gaze more than a few feet from herself. She had no idea what he was talking about. Gods, she felt so _sick_. It felt like she was radiating heat like a brick removed right from the coals of a fire. Her entire body ached, cheeks feeling like they were burning with the flush of a sudden fever.

She would have cried for help, to beg Gaston not to do whatever he was about to do, but there was no strength left in his voice, just a faint whisper lost on the autumnal breeze as soon as the pitiful whimper left her lips in the form of a half-choked sob. Her breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time she inhaled, her lungs having no choice but to take in the chilled air around painfully and rigidly him. Belle couldn't seem to stop shaking either, and she trembled in Quasi's strong hold, who, thankfully, did not seem to be allowing Gaston anywhere near her.

Gaston ignored the demonic creature who was in his wife's company as the redheaded man rose to his feet, and he heard the monster's low threatening growl in his throat, his gloved hands balling and clenching into fists at his sides, though he could not help but to notice that it was enough to quell the demon's rage as Belle let out a muffled squeak and gave a curt shake of her head no, barely noticeable, and Gaston would have more than likely missed it had he not already been hanging onto her every movement. Gaston narrowed his eyes and his grip on his wife's wrist tightened, and she squirmed underneath his touch but did not cry out in pain.

Gaston seethed, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his blue eyes narrowed, as one of his hands came up to grip the back of her hair, finding purchase in her dark strands. The hunter let out a heavy sigh and cupped Belle's chin in his hand. "I knew I'd find you eventually. You've caused me no small amount of grief, wife, causing me to come _all_ the way into Paris just to find poor little _you_. And poor old Maurice, he was so _disappointed_ when you left, but he'll be so _relieved_ to have you back, love…" Gaston clucked his tongue in mock disappointment, relishing in the way the girl's face paled, as if hit by blizzard, and her lips were agape as if devoid of words.

His gaze darted back and forth between that of the creature's, whose expression was unreadable, almost impassive, though the war captain and hunter was not fooled.

The redhead demonic monster standing next to Belle was just as furious, though he could see it in the surprisingly brilliant cobalt blue orbs of the monster's that he was afraid to act out in anger for fear that Gaston would retaliate against Belle. Gaston heaved a heavy sigh and pinched at his temples, and then the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger

"I am…sorry that it has to be this way, Belle. I truly am. But I did _warn_ you, little dove, what would happen if you ever left me. And now _you_ are the one who pays the ultimate price. I'd rather _not_ ruin your pretty little face and make you one ugly whore, though it would certainly reflect what you've _done_ , Belle. I like you pretty, my little wife. Still," he sighed, almost sounding bored, like he wanted nothing more than to get this little farce over and done with. "I'll have to get my message across to you some other way, I'm afraid. Not _him_ , not I." Gaston brought his lips together and whistled, his whistle loud, long, and shrill.

He did not have to wait long as LeFou stepped forward from the brush near the edge of the woods, dragging the girl's father, his wrists bound together by a length of corded rope, one of his eyes swollen shut, and he was walking rather lopsided, and she could only determine it was Maurice by the sheen of his thick tuft of white hair as he stepped into the faltering moonlight before the moon drifted behind a cloud and disappeared.

Belle felt her face drain of color and terror seize her heart as bile settled on her tongue. " **NO**! No, no, no, Gaston, _please_ don't do this, j—just let him go! Take me instead, punish _me_ but let my father _go_ …" Belle screamed, her heart wrenching cry of agony having escaped the confines of the back of her throat before she could stop herself. She scrambled, an arm outstretched and extended towards her father, though she was prevented from rushing to Maurice's side as she felt a pair of strong hands grip around her waist. Belle glanced down briefly to recognize that Quasi had brought one of his arms around her middle and was preventing her from rushing to her father's side. Belle parted her lips to scream, feeling unshed tears well in the corners of her eyes, though no sound emerged. "LeFou, please don't do this…."

Gaston's best friend was looking hesitant and unsure of going along with Gaston's plan, but one withering look from the war captain and hunter, and he dipped his head in submission. "I—I'm sorry, Belle," he murmured, ashamed.

 _No…._ Belle bit the wall of her cheek and blinked back briny, salty tears.

In her intense silence, she somehow screamed with her whole body. Her dark eyes wide with horror, her mouth rigid and open, her chalky face gaunt and immobile, her fists clenched with blanched knuckles and the nails digging deeply into the palms of her hand. The cold look reflected on her husband's face gave her the chills, freezing her insides and rendering the blood in her veins to ice.

Gaston's powerful hands were tightly closed around the hilt of his sword. He seemed to have no sense of humanity left. His heart seemed to be made of stone, the way his cold, listless blue eyes were regarding his wife's agonized state with no emotions. Belle swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back briny, salty liquid that flowed unchecked from her eyes, as the inventor's daughter blearily lifted her gaze to meet Gaston's. She would never forget the evil glint in the hunter's beady eyes. How her husband smelled of blood. Of danger.

Her gaze flitted back to LeFou and Maurice, and when Maurice first came into view, she did not recognize her aging father. He was too far away and his gait all wrong. He walked lopsided, and as LeFou gave a violent, harsh tug of the length of rope that was restraining his wrists, eliciting a sharp, warbling cry of pain from Maurice, and as he neared the bell ringer and Belle, she felt her heart plummet deep into the pit of her stomach and a wave of nausea wash over her and she felt the acidic stomach bile creep up in her throat and settle on her tongue. She felt her stomach give a painful lurch, and the nausea clawed at her throat.

Her father was more purple than pale. His left eye was swollen, he could not be seeing a thing out of that and he would not for a while yet. Maurice's face still bore traces of congealed blood, and his clothes were an utter mess, torn, tattered, bloodied. Then he tried to say her name, his cracked lips failing at the first syllable. Belle's eyes walked from one injury to another, taking in the gore that was her Papa.

The shadows of the beating were on Maurice's skin and on his heart.

The knowledge that her own _husband_ could do such a thing to his father-in-law just broke something inside of Belle, something that would remain long after this wound healed. It was a sadness in his eyes, his one good eye not currently swollen shut, and a heaviness, an unyielding sorrow at what Maurice's son-in-law had done to him, the painful wounds that he had inflicted, but perhaps the worst one of all: the salt in the already tender wound that was his daughter's broken heart at being forced into a loveless marriage with this _beast_.

Gaston turned towards Belle, and his expression darkened, cobalt blue eyes darkening to almost a cerulean hue in color as the hunter's gaze drifted downward and settled upon the bell ringer's arms wrapped tightly around Belle's waist as she felt the strength in her legs leave her, and he gently lowered her to the ground with such a surprising tenderness, that ignited a primeval, carnal rage within Gaston's heart.

" _Please_ …" Belle sobbed, tears pouring down her face, hating hearing the crack and dip in her voice as Gaston paced restlessly between the gap of space that separated Belle from reaching her father. "Gaston, please don't do this…" She swallowed, tasting bile on her tongue. "I'll…I'll come back with you, I'll do whatever you want, just…don't hurt him!" she screamed, near hysterics at this point.

But Gaston did not seem to be in a mood for talk. He was past the point of no return and such pleasantries were no longer an option. He let out a low growl from the back of his throat. "I _warned_ you, Belle, I tried to tell you what would happen, and you did not listen. Now you've left me no other choice. This? _This on you_ ," Gaston growled, his voice sounding numb and flat, and when he turned to regard her, Belle visibly winced and let out a low whimpering moan.

Deliberation was over. He had judged her already and, in his eyes, she saw only cool hatred. His eyes were a knife in Belle's ribs, the sharp point digging deeper.

Where there had been perhaps love for her once was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with the void, he had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with - raw anger. The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back and loosing. Gaston's eyes flashed with indignance and anger, much like lightning on a pitch black night. Belle couldn't recognize her husband anymore, the man she used to know was gone, and it was all because of her. Belle inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as Gaston knelt down at her level and cupped his wife's chin in her hands.

" _Don't touch her_!" snarled the bell ringer, jerking backwards slightly, his grip on her waist tightening, no warmth in his voice. He had let go of his kindness and timidity, for it would do him no good here. Belle swallowed and watched as Gaston's face paled in anger and a muscle behind his left eyelid twitched as her husband brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Belle heard Quasi inhale the same sharp breath as she, and she felt her dark eyes widen, her breaths growing more ragged and harsher. Her hands trembled at her side and she barely registered the sound as she heard one of Gaston's hounds coming, the poundings of its footfalls, like a threatening whisper almost, an assault on her senses. It was incredible how light the creature moved.

It didn't seem to come from any particular direction, just a sound that encapsulated her inside her cocoon of despair and hopelessness for Maurice.

"This is all my fault," she moaned, her eyes fixated on her father, who was fading fast. "Papa? No…don't go, y—you stay with me, Papa, please _don't_ ," she whispered, her voice cracking, fresh tears streaming down her face.

She swallowed hard as last Gaston's prize hound came into view, a dark shape of matted fur that smelled of wet dog and blood from a fresh kill. This beast was neither lithe nor graceful. Its fur was matted and tangled, the dog huge and grotesque with clumps of congealed blood stuck to the hound's dark fur and large paws.

The dog hunched on its shoulders, shackles raised, yellow teeth bared and snarling, poised to attack Belle and Quasi. She could hear nothing and then—

"It's a shame that things have to be this way, Belle," again, Gaston sounded as though he were teasing her and immensely enjoying it. "Your father was very brave in my…questioning of your disappearance," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but I mean…why is everyone seeming to be willing to die for you, wife?"

Gaston whistled again and the hound lurched forward, its hulking limbs shaking with the heat of grotesque excitement seen in the dog's foaming mouth.

The dog paced restlessly back in forth in front of her master's towering form with her tail whipping. Gaston knelt down and affectionately scratched the dog's ear before whispering only two words, " _Rip. Him_."

Belle's blood turned sour in her veins. The details began to flash and etch on her mind like a horrible vulgar painting, blood, chunks of flesh, scalp flayed apart from her father's skull as the vicious hell hound's razor sharp teeth clamped down on Maurice's neck.

"I've never shown you a body after my dogs have been at it, have I, wife? T'is not so pretty, but this should get my point across well enough, I think. Collect your things at your wretched precious sanctuary, and if you aren't on the front steps by the time that I come for you, wife, well, then… My hounds would have themselves a little _snack_ on your malformed _wretch_ of a friend here…" Gaston taunted, before turning back towards Belle and purposefully stepped aside, allowing a few agonizing minutes to pass as Belle violently clenched her eyes shut and buried her head in the crook of Quasi's shoulder, refusing to look, though that did not stop the horrible sounds of flesh and ligaments tearing, and after about two minutes of this, Gaston gave a curt whistle and walked away, the hound trailing at his heels, though not before pausing to spit at Quasi's brown leather boots, and shoot Belle an intense glowering look of hatred that chilled her insides.

Belle scrambled towards what was left of her father, the blood not gushing in a constant flow, but in time with the beating of Maurice's heart. She felt the blood move over her hand as she gingerly pressed her palms to his throat, the thick fluid no warmer or cooler than her own skin. After a few moments more, the blood was still leaving his rapidly paling flesh, but the pulses were slower, weaker.

"Belle…" Maurice hoarsely whispered, and it was a miracle her father could still even speak. Belle swallowed and blinking back wretched, vicious tears.

"Papa…" she croaked hoarsely, her voice a soft susurration. "Don't go."

There was no amount of horror that could ever prepare her for seeing the life force ebb from another, the hopelessness, the tearing at the soul that was the departing of the other. Death came for Maurice with the slow rattling gasps. His breathing would stop for a time only to reemerge like a drowning victim coming up for one last breath, though in her father's case, he was choking to death on his own blood. But in a few moments, Maurice had passed on, his earthly tether separated, and his soul bound for the Lord. Belle cried like there was too much raw pain inside her to be contained. She cried like her spirit needed to break loose from her skin, desperate to release an elemental rage on the world.

The soothing words of the bell ringer made no difference at all. She was beyond all reason, beyond all natural methods of calming.

"Wh—what do we do with him? I—I can't just leave him here!" she sobbed, tears streaming down her ashen cheeks in unceasing tracts, cradling her father's limp form in her arms, not minding the blood that stained through her green dress.

Gaston's voice rent through her hysterical wails. "Feed him to the hounds, wife. He's good meat."

That did it. Notre Dame's bell ringer felt his head whiplash sharply upward as he felt the last vestiges of his patience snap and break. Quasi did not bother to stifle the low growl that formed in the back of his throat as he realized he did not have time to properly sort through his emotions. A fiery, burning rage pulsated through his veins as he felt himself stand and rise to his full height of 5'8, admittedly a good head or two shorter than the girl's husband, but he did not care. This man had hurt Belle in the most horrific way possible, and that he could not allow.

By the gods, he was going to kill this man… White knuckled from clenching his fists too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, his form exuded an animosity that was like acid—burning, slicing, and potent. The bell ringer's face was white with suppressed rage, and when the man called Gaston even swung back around and set a finger on his shoulder with the intent of shoving him backward, Quasi felt himself mentally snap as he bit the inside wall of his cheek in one last ditch effort to restrain himself, and the pressure behind his eyelids and his pounding skull just…exploded.

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Quasi to even consider this man's words to be genuine considering the words pouring unchecked out of the guy's thin lips came from the same man who had just brutally butchered Belle's father in front of her eyes. This hunter didn't deserve to live, and if Quasi granted him that mercy, then this man could very well come after her again and seek revenge, and that was just simply one thing that he could not allow to happen.

With his own two hands, Quasi grasped the guy's head in his hands and brought his kneecap up to his nose, probably breaking this guy's nose and released his dark-haired head. He screamed and clawed at his nose as crimson leaked from both his nostrils and this time, his nose looked like it was twisted all the way to the right, not left.

This man definitely wasn't going down without a fight, though. It was the rings on the hunter's fingers that really hurt and kept catching the already bruised skin underneath Quasi's eyes. His head jerked backward, and he tasted that familiar coppery tang of sweet blood in his mouth. Didn't need to look at it to know the hunter wasn't going to win this fight. Quasi wouldn't let him win. He was arrogant for one, a pure showoff that flaunted with flurries of punches and good swings, fast yes, but left himself open, and due to his hulking size, he was slower than Quasi was.

Quasi let the dark-haired hunter jab him just to get his blood rushing in heat, though pure adrenaline surged and coursed through his veins. Shaking his head, Quasi stared into the man's eyes. It wasn't like he _enjoyed_ this, using his overwhelming strength, this part which he fought so hard against and tried to repress the beast within its cage. But he saw no other solution to this problem. This rational line of thinking multiplied the reason for Quasi to break this man. And he would.

Second thing about this hunter: he'd never met Quasi, so he didn't know how he operated. True, this guy was fast, but Quasi was way more focused, not staring in his eyes, but at his chest, the center point for all attack, his weakest point, given how his lungs and shoulders were heaving, straining to regain airflow to his lungs.

This guy hadn't been in a good quality fistfight like this in a long time. Quasi could see his burly shoulder, thick waist, and wherever he was going to attack, from whenever, Quasi was going to greet him. The guy came with a leg, his dirtied boot soles practically shoved in Quasi's face. Pulling a face of disgust, Quasi grabbed it and then yanked his dagger out of his sheath and stabbed him with it. Hard.

He screamed, and that was Quasi's opening to lunge and tackle him to the ground. Each blow he made was precise, an exhale of breath with each one. _Breathe. Breathe_. He could remember Laverne and the other gargoyles telling him to breathe whenever anger like this would course through his veins. Quasi felt his curled fist land in the hunter's gut, the once hard bones along his body now crumpled like cereal. He was starting to get slower. Quasi got faster, which meant he had the upper hand, the advantage. Quasi could feel himself penetrate this guy's defenses before he could so much as blink an eye.

In the middle of their fight, Quasi felt his anger fade and blankness was its replacement, along with a strange humming noise in his ears that rang unceasingly. Pure, unbridled rage is what it was, he was sure of it, he was sure, but still… Quasi frowned, feeling like he was watching his own body at work here. Quasi could see all of the hunter's soft spots. So, when he finally gagged and then spat blood one last time off to the side, trickling's of it spattering across Quasi's palms and his left cheek, Quasi wasn't surprised an ounce that he fell over, cracked on the muddied ground afterwards. Then nothing but silence. His chest rose a few more times before he finally gave up and gave one last shuddering breath.

Then he died.

Panting heavily, he did not bother to turn from the hunter's lifeless corpse, watching with narrowed eyes as the shorter one, his accomplice, scurried off away from the edge of the River Seine and towards the streets of the marketplace. The only thing that broke him out of staring at the corpse that lay lifeless at his boots that he had inherently just killed was the sound of a heart wrenching scream.

Belle had always been so self-conscious when she cried but now, she just gave way to the enormity of her grief. She sobbed into her hands and the tears dripped between her fingers, raining down onto the parched soil. Her breathing was ragged, gasping and the strength left her legs. She sank to her knees not caring about the grit that dug into her knees. She was noisy, her skin was blotched, but she did not care.

She cried until no more tears came, but still the emptiness and sorrow remained. Dawn came. On the first light of the day her still crouched figure remained unmoved, still clutching onto Maurice's lifeless form.

There was nothing left, nobody left, no reason to move.

And still, she screamed.

* * *

 **A/N: It had been my long obsession to have Q protect his woman and beat the living crap out of Gaston, and it's one less villain for them to deal with, since Claude is still very much in the picture and is not going to be pleased with ah, shall we say 'recent developments'. Lol. I feel like I don't have to justify my decision to kill off Maurice, since real life is full of hurts and pain and sadness, and not everybody get a fairytale ending with that white picket fence, but that did not make it any more easier for me to write it. It was a hard struggle. Sad they killed off her Father. But, it's like the saying goes on one of my favorite shows, Once Upon a Time goes, "All magic comes with a price." And Belle just paid the price for hers.** **  
**

**Stay Safe, my lovelies! XX**


	23. No Hope Left

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

Quasimodo wasn’t entirely sure how much more of this he could take. To see Belle agonize, lose sleep, and slowly starve herself was killing her slowly. It certainly wasn’t helping his anxiety spikes, either. He felt more connected to Belle than anyone else he’d ever met. Notre Dame’s bell ringer loved the feel of her arms, her touch, her embrace, though in the two weeks since her father’s gruesome murder, Belle had begun to pull away, refusing to eat. It was killing him to see her this way. He’d tried several times to get her help, the essence of nightshade from Sister Alice to help her sleep, but Belle possessed a stubborn streak and refused any help from him or the caretakers.

He knew her reasons and could respect and understand them. He would support her. He would not walk away because she had begged of him to stay. He would always stay. For to be in her presence was as close to heaven’s light as he could come. But right now, what he needed the most from Belle was honesty. He deserved to know the truth. For too long he’d pushed back against his pain if he could remember, medicating by leaning on his friendship with Father Darius and Sister Alice, but in times like it now, it returned to him in weaker moments, devastating his mind. To keep repeating this vicious pattern would only prolong it, keep his pains hidden.

When in truth, he needed to deal with them. He knew that he would fight for her, kill for her if need be, and he already had. Brother Paul, one of their monks, had been the one to discover the hunter’s lifeless body and had said not a word to Quasimodo at the time, more intent on dealing with finding the remains of the girl’s father and ensuring the man had a burial.

And he still hadn’t forgotten the disgruntled Prince that had fled from the cathedral without so much as a word to anyone. Quasimodo had not been there at the time to witness the cretin’s departure for himself, but he had heard rumors from Sister Maria and Sister Alice that the Prince had spouted such vile black curse words from his mouth that prompted the Archdeacon to evict him from the cathedral, telling him never to return.

The bell ringer had a feeling the Archdeacon would need to speak to him later in that regard, but for now, he needed to focus on Belle’s needs.

At last, he found her, sitting cross-legged out on the Rose Window balcony, her back resting against the stone-cold wall, a listless look in her dark eyes. The circles underneath her eyes were more pronounced, purple, and only made her cheeks look thin and gaunt, hollow. It was clear to him that Belle had not received a full night’s rest in two weeks, not since…that.

“Belle?” he asked gingerly, kneeling down, and setting the tray Sister Alice had prepared for him containing a half loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, and a lemon cake and a chalice of water on the floor in front of her. “You should eat something, you’ve not eaten in a day, Sister Alice told me. Eat.”

Quasimodo winced as he realized his voice was pressured with ire. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and continued. “I did not climb all the way down to the kitchen just to hear you are starving yourself. _Eat_.”

In the shadows cast by the encroaching thunderstorm’s clouds as black and purple clouds billowed in from the east, Belle was unstirred. Her feet were bare, and scratches covered the top of her delicate feet. She looked like a corpse and were it not for the gentle rising and falling of her shoulders, the one thing the cathedral’s bell ringer examined, thinking her dead otherwise.

Belle’s ivory floor-length chemise’s hem was dirty, and her dark green forest overdress needed to be washed as well. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose messy bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her pallid face.

He furrowed his brows into a frown as he glanced off to the right, the tray beside the new one he had almost sent flailing across the balcony, having almost stepped on it with the sole of his brown leather boot. The food: a slice of bread, a bowl of oats and fruit, and a platter of buttered roasted duck remained cold and untouched. It was not the first tray Belle had wasted.

“You should eat something, Belle.” He tried again, biting the wall of his cheek, and doing his best to quell the strange swooping sensation in his stomach. “You need to let me help you, Belle. What happened to your father was a terrible crime, a—and your husband is _dead_ ,” he growled darkly.

Quasi winced as he watched Belle stiffen and recoil as he gingerly laid out a gloved hand and placed it upon her shoulder. He blanched and frowned, and her lack of response was the sound of Belle’s silent breathing.

This only added cinder to the fire that had begun to curdle his blood. If he were being entirely honest with himself at the moment, Quasimodo knew he had every right to be angry with Belle, for she had, by rights, lied to him by omission. She had kept the fact that she was married a secret. He clenched his jaw shut as he felt fires of fury and hatred towards the girl’s husband smoldered in his brilliantly cobalt blue eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of discussing what exactly what was on his mind with Belle.

He needed to know if the girl cared for him in the way that he did for her, but…given everything that had happened, how she was recently widowed, he did not know if there was ever an appropriate time to broach the topic. Quasi knew that what hides behind the lies were truths that failed to get to the light. What lied behind Belle’s betrayal may have been honesty at first sight, and after seeing what kind of a man her husband was for himself, he supposed he could not fault her for wanting to keep the man’s existence a secret from him. But why had she done it?

Too many questions swirling in his mind, not enough answers. Was it out of fear for his life? Notre Dame’s bell ringer did not know how he could possibly be worth anything to her, for he was nothing. A monster. An Almost-Made. The Demon. He felt so incredibly confused over this but had to trust in Father Darius’s and Alice’s words that everything would come out when the time was right when she was ready to talk.

Quasi bit the wall of his cheek in a sense of nervous anticipation as he watched Belle’s head whiplash sharply upwards and her dark eyes narrowed. Though she did not look at him, instead choosing to keep her gaze remained fixated on the city of Paris through the bars of the balcony’s railing.

“I can’t let you starve,” he murmured, lowering his voice, and looking away for a moment. “I am your…” His voice trailed off and he bit his tongue. What exactly _was_ he to Belle? Certainly not a husband, and not a lover, though he had not forgotten the kiss she had given him, and how he had tried to kiss her back. He longed to feel her lips move in sync with his again, though now was not the time to be having such inappropriate thoughts. He blinked, trying to sort through his emotions and clear his mind.

Quasi felt his gloved hands ball into a fist as he practically growled with the effort to restrain himself. Exhaling a shaking breath and feeling his nostrils flare, he closed his eyes shut and took several deep, slow breaths, in and out and when he opened them, Belle’s attentions still remained fixated on the city of Paris below. “I—you _need_ to let me help you, Belle,” he pleaded desperately, reaching out a tender gloved hand to tuck back a wisp of hair that had fallen loose from her bun behind her ear. “I can’t let you die…”

“How?” Quasi winced and visibly flinched at hearing how flat and numb Belle’s voice sounded. “ _How_ can you help me? No one can help.”

Still, she did not look at him. Quasi sighed as a muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right, unobstructed eye, and his mouth formed a rigid grimace. He felt his brows come together in quandary as he folded his arms tightly across his broad chest and did not meet Belle’s gaze.

“I—I don’t know, but I can try,” he admitted, hating hearing the crack and dip in his voice. Quasimodo sighed and reached up a shaking hand to card back that one lock of stubborn fiery coarse red hair that never failed to annoy him by hanging limp in front of his one good eye. “I have to try.”

The redheaded bell ringer knew even as he spoke the words to his friend, they were hopeless and bounced off of her as good as hard rain.

There was a silence to Belle’s soul as she grieved for her father like she was the fall leaves under frost. She felt the chill in her blood, the coldness bringing the synapses of her brain to a standstill. And Quasi hated this.

He wanted to wrap his arms around and never let her go, to tell her that it was not hopeless, that there was still meaning to her life, but he knew that Belle would not heed his words. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “You aren’t sleeping. I—I could get you some essence of nightshade to help you sleep if you think that it will help. You talk to your…husband in your sleep. I know about your dreams, Belle,” he muttered quietly, seeing the dawning look of horror in the young brunette woman’s dark eyes as she turned back. “ _Your husband is dead_. And so is your father. Gaston Dupont is dead. You need to accept that fact. He’s dead. I—I _killed_ him, a—and he _won’t_ be coming back.” Quasimodo glanced down and realized his hands had instinctively balled into fists without him realizing, and they had settled in his lap, though they shook, to prevent himself from striking out at something in anger and worry over her condition.

Emanating a tense exhale, he shook his head and carded back that stubborn lock of hair again, stifling his growl of frustration and continued.

“Doesn’t it seem easier to accept the fact that your husband can no longer hurt you than it does to continue letting him do this to you? It seems like it's an easier out than this _torture_ you’re putting yourself through because you _won’t_ let him go!” Quasi cried, swallowing hard and blinking back tears. “Even in death, your husband has a vice grip on your mind, and it’s hurting me to not be able to help you. I—I hate this, that I don’t know what to do! Tell me what to do,” he begged, biting his bottom lip. “You need help. Why won’t you let me, and Sister Alice help you? Is it the medicines?”

When Belle finally seemed to regain the power of speech, her voice was hoarse and soft and did not at all sound like her sweet jovial tone he had grown accustomed to during her time spent within the cathedral’s walls.

“I lay awake all night, a—and _all_ I see is his face as Gaston’s dog _rips_ my father apart to shreds. The fear in his eyes,” she whisper hissed through clenched teeth and rooted jaw. “The emptiness is always there; I consider myself decent at hiding it, masking it with normal human emotions. No one is going to ask me why I'm smiling. It hides everywhere, this emptiness. There isn't any getting away from it. My nightmares seem to help fill it, with what I don't care to elaborate. They remind me of my childhood like the emptiness is the monster under the bed. I'm scared of it, but I need it. I need to feel something. I need something to go wrong, something to be imperfect. I think, sadly, I feel safer when something is wrong. I need that monster under the bed. I need it to distract myself, from not everything else but, simply, from myself.” Her voice cracked and broke as she blearily lifted her head and kicked aside the tray of food Quasimodo had brought up for her, and fixed Notre Dame’s bell ringer with a cold stare, also not like Belle.

“I—if you will e—excuse me, my friend, I—I should like to visit the nave, I think. I—I would like to be alone, Quasimodo. I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice faltering as a single tear cascaded down her cheek.

Quasi heaved a heavy sigh and reached out a hand to help Belle to her feet, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as the brunette looked away and brushed her hands on the skirts of her ivory chemise and green overdress. “If you think it will help you, then you should go, b—but please eat something, and soon. I cannot allow you to starve yourself to death. I hope that the nave brings you peace.” He paused, painfully wringing his gloved hands together, weaving his fingers in between his knuckles in agitation, desperately wishing she would stay, but he could not—would not—force her to stay. “I—I’ve heard prayer can be helpful,” he commented, a wistful, repentant look in his eyes as Belle turned her back on him again.

Belle froze, lingering in the entryway that separated the balcony’s terrace from his bell tower loft, a hand on the wall to steady herself. When she turned around and lifted her chin to meet Quasimodo’s gaze, he wished he would have kept her gaze fixated in front of her, for the heartbreak in her eyes was entirely too much for him to bear. Belle’s eyes shifted to the side again and became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As she blinked and she painfully twisted her fingers together, her tears dripped from her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. Belle bit her lip tightly in a futile attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from her mouth, and Quasi felt his heart sink.

Her lower lip quivered as words slowly tumbled out of her mouth. “They’re…” Belle began, yet what followed was engulfed in the tremors. “I don’t pray anymore,” she confessed, casting her gaze downward at her bare feet. “The nave is the only place I can go where people don’t talk to me.”

With that, Belle turned her back on the bell ringer of Notre Dame, picked up the skirts of her dress, and quit the balcony before Quasi could so much as utter another word to her. He stared after the spot where she had stood only moments before, wishing that he could help her but how…

Quasimodo was getting used to the dryness of his mouth and the constant swallowing of nothing, though now as he thought of Belle’s words, there the slimy sensation of something thick and the taste of iron on his tongue. Notre Dame’s bell ringer spat the blood that had filled his taste buds and he sank to the floor of the balcony, his back resting against the cold stone wall, shivering while all the while curbing his pained breaths.

It hurt like hell, to see Belle this way. His jaw clenched and his teeth dug on the wall of his mouth. Quasi felt beads of sweat form on his brow and the bell ringer let out a quick and aggravated breath as he felt the weakening of his legs, feeling immensely grateful he was already sitting down as his hand jutted out behind him, his right gloved hand curled into a white-boned fist and he struck the stone in anger.

 _If that Prince ever comes back_ , he thought, fuming, and seething as his jaw tensed and locked in anger. _I’ll kill him…by the gods, I’ll kill him…_ Quasimodo almost swallowed his tongue, throttling his urge to roar like an enraged dragon at what the girl’s husband had done. A few hot tears escaped that stung and blurred his vision, rendering the world of the balcony and bell towers around him into a hazy blur.

But the worst part was not the stinging upon his bruised knuckles, but the simple fact that it was not enough to swap with the anguish that pierced his broken heart.

* * *

She had not gone to the nave like she had said she would. She had fully intended to, but her feet seemed to have other ideas in mind for her, no longer taken directions from her mind, and somehow, she found herself here, in this place of death, loss, and torment. “You would hate this place, Papa,” she whispered in a broken voice as she blinked back salty, briny tears.

Belle had never quite experienced grief this bad before. It snuck up behind her quietly and took her under its arms in an instant, even two weeks after her father’s funeral. The nuns had gathered what remained of his body and prepared him for burial, though she could not bring herself to attend.

Every memory of Maurice played like a song in her head, repeating itself for what felt like an eternity. She was lost because mostly she had lost an integral part of herself, one that Belle would never get back. She could not get that part back and she wanted it so badly her life depended on it, but it was all gone, vanished into thin air. She could not say that it got better. At first, she thought and was of the belief that grief was something so bad that took her ten feet under, but soon, Belle learned that it was just the price you had to pay for daring to love someone, no matter the relationship.

Moss laden bricks of gray, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill sun daring to peek behind a graying thunder cloud, ailing.

Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The graveyard echoed.

To enter, Belle had to skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today, there was no weather. No wind, just howling. The temperature felt as if a mild apparition and so she heard the wind’s company even more so, silent.

The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance was of little consequence to the inventor’s daughter and the crumbling gravestones with their engraved epitaphs bathed in light spilled from the light of the sun hidden behind a cloud. Gnarled trees hunched over most of the expanse, plunging the rest in shadow. The place echoed with painful grief and the emptiness of loss.

Belle had never felt more at home. She sniffed and did not bother to look back as the back train of her black velvet and lace mourning gown became wet from the rainfall that had occurred but a mere two hours ago.

She paused when she reached her father’s tomb, clutching the single white lily she had purchase from a flower vendor in the marketplace on her way here, fingering the little white thing’s delicate petals. So soft and fragile.

Grief. It felt like a strange emptiness in her heart, a sheer of nothingness that somehow had taken over and held Belle’s soul hostage, threatening to kill her entirely. It gave the inventor’s daughter this strange, heavy feeling that was like the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders and there was nothing she could do in order to get herself out from underneath of it.

The grief of missing her papa came in waves and threatened to consume Belle entirely. It was her master, for now. She was at the mercy of its whims and at times, it bit at her with such ferocity, that Belle feared it would leave her an empty shell, with nothing left to live for. “I—I’m so sorry…”

Her face crumpled, twisting, and contorting with grief, and it was only here in front of Maurice’s unmarked tomb that she allowed herself to cry.

She had never got to tell her Papa that she loved him one last time. She did not get to hold her father close before he slipped away. She never even got to look into his loving, beautiful face, which always brought her so much happiness, before Maurice died. Her father had always been her anchor, whenever Belle had started to drift. A friend to her when she’d had no one else. He had always been there for her with a smile shining in his bright eyes. And now he was gone.

Forever.

Her anger and rage at what Gaston had so brutally _taken_ from her dissolved into sadness as tears embraced her eyes, making the tombstone and the dirt beneath her feet blend together as one.

Waves of pain washed over Belle, and she felt her body convulse to meet each one. Her father was gone, his light extinguished by death’s empty darkness. All Belle had left of Maurice was the fading image in her mind.

She could still see him in the cellar of their old house in the kitchen, tinkering over some music box or other. But no matter how hard Belle tried, she could not fully see her father’s face. Like a ship straining to see a light in a storm, Belle desperately searched for a picture of her Papa’s face in her memories. None came to her. All she remembered was the brightness of her father’s eyes, but the details of his face were gone, just like him. In despair, she pressed her forehead against his tombstone, as close as Belle could get.

Belle’s hold upon the single lily loosened and the petals crumpled and fell to the ground. Emanating a tense exhale through her nose, she shakily rose to the ground, grateful the veil over her face covered her distraught expression from curious onlookers. She sniffed once and adjusted the long flared tow sleeves of her dress, repressing a shudder as a cold autumnal breeze wafted through the air as October slowly drew to a close. Soon, the winds of winter would be upon them and the weather would begin to grow frigid.

She glanced around the graveyard with red-rimmed, watery eyes. How could such a place as this be so full and empty at the same time? All around, the tombstones were laid with their faded itching, but most were unmarked. A roll call for the people who could not answer. For when their bodies became still and cold and their life force left them, they became a cadaver, not a person.

Their soul, their living being, had moved on to God, to walk among Jesus and God’s Angels and be healed. Belle exhaled a shaking breath and blinked away the last of her tears, standing in the watery light of the early evening, living, breathing, her life ahead of her stretching ahead, and yet…whatever Belle came for was not here. This graveyard was full.

Full of stone, moss, yew trees, and the decaying remnants of bone and flesh. But it was empty. There was nobody here but her. Her Papa was gone.

Belle jumped and stifled a cry of surprise as an unfamiliar voice rent through the air and shattered the silence, a woman’s voice that she did not recognize.

“I miss him too.”


	24. New Acquaintances

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Belle turned her head, finding a woman older than her, but still quite pretty, standing almost directly behind her. She blinked owlishly at the voice, startled by the new arrival, and even more so of the woman that stood in front of Belle as she shakily turned around to face the new arrival, hesitantly lifting her black veil from her face, not even caring the woman before her took notice of her red-rimmed irises. Belle at first made no reply, trying to gauge who this she-stranger was to her, and how she had found her here.

Though she would never come outright and admit this to the woman’s face, Belle found it rather unnerving and unpleasing that someone had discovered her in her place of solitude, where she was free to mourn.

She cast her eyes to Maurice’s unmarked grave. Her Papa was down there and Gaston and LeFou had taken him from her. What did God need her father for? Father Darius back at the cathedral had said God had ‘called him home,’ with a pained look upon his handsome features, his cobalt blue eyes shining with something akin to grief for her and her father.

Belle swallowed nervously as she imagined the priest’s rearranged by the end of a shovel. Her Papa already had a God damn home and damn God for taking him. Belle blinked back salty liquid as a fresh onset of tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and threatened escape, but she fought it back down.

Belle could not— _would not_ —allow herself to cry in front of a stranger. She gingerly glanced down at the now-crumpled pristine white lily that she had allowed slipping from between her fingers, where it came to rest at the foot of her father’s grave as she allowed her mind to wonder if Gaston had been granted the privilege of a grave.

Quasi had led her away from the horrific scene and had not allowed her to glance back as a few soldiers of the cathedral guard were called upon to dispose of her deceased husband’s body.

Belle had been raised in an environment of love and peace, thanks to her father, God rest his soul, bless him and keep him, taught to show grace and to forgive, but when her mind turned to thoughts of Gaston and what he had done, or that his best friend and partner, LeFou had done, merely stood by and _allowed_ her father’s murder to occur and not speak up, none of it was there. Her husband had known what he was doing, and all she could feel for the dead man these days was a horrible, toxic, engulfing bitterness.

With each passing day, it grew and grew, pushing on the side of her mind that was serene, enveloping her in icy darkness, taking her fully.

“Well. I’m glad to see _someone_ in this city appreciates it for what it is, a gift of nature. Whenever _I_ bring a flower to a grave, it becomes discarded.”

The woman standing in front of Belle spoke again, her voice soft and quiet, startling her out of her thoughts and almost eliciting a scream from her. Belle knitted her brows together in confusion, casting her eyes down to the edge of Maurice’s grave, where she had delicately placed the white lily.

Belle lifted her chin, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the single flower to meet the newcomer’s gaze, looked slightly to her right, and gaped. A beautiful woman stood in front of Belle, though her cobalt eyes were not currently fixated on Belle, but upon Maurice’s grave, and the lily. The stranger had beautiful auburn strawberry blonde hair that fell in graceful curls to her shoulders. When she met Belle’s gaze, the inventor’s daughter could not help but to feel as though she were staring into her soul. Her eyes were of liquid amber scrutinizing things that Belle could only dream of seeing in herself. This woman, whoever she was, was a mystery.

A dangerous, beautiful mystery, a stranger to Belle, of whom she was admittedly wary, though something in the woman’s gaze told Belle that if she were to speak up about her trepidations, she would not be faulted for it.

And yet, Belle could not help but feel as though she had allowed herself to become ensnared in this strange woman’s trap. How the moon poured down on the two of them in this desolate graveyard, showering the stranger in beams of milky moonlight. They caught in the woman’s curls, these moonbeams, making each auburn curl seem as though it was burning. The stars illuminated her skin. She looked deathly pale as if her heart would stop at any moment, and Belle surmised she could not have been older than her late thirties.

Perhaps forty, at the oldest, so she was much too young to die from a complaint of the heart. The inventor’s daughter’s frown deepened, and Belle was well aware she was staring, but she could not seem to avert her gaze or even think of looking away for a split second, even. The blonde woman’s face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving. A snowy face, beautiful and elegant, like that of a snow queen in one of the many fairytales Belle had read throughout the years. The woman’s hands, too, were bone-white, but soft, elegant, as pale hands went.

Belle bit the wall of her cheek and could not help but wonder if she were to reach out with one of her hands and try to touch her if she would only graze the air. As if the woman were nothing more than a ghost. A spirit.

She felt her gaze wander to the stranger’s robe, which admittedly looked entirely too neat to belong to that of the beggars that crowded the streets of Paris on a daily basis, so she wondered if this woman was a noble.

The robe the stranger wore was a long linen robe, a brown color the color of desert sand. The fabric was draped in rich architectural pleats; the waistline was high, which only emphasized her slim, elongated silhouette. The sleeves of the garment were long and wide with turnbacks. The hood draped elegantly over the back, giving off the appearance that this woman, whoever she was, was a queen or a wanderer in exile, an ambassador of God.

The only noticeable flaw to the mysterious woman’s spellbinding appearance was a nasty-looking bruise over one of her delicately shaped brows that looked like it would eventually leave one hell of a scar, but it was not what Belle’s eyes were drawn to. No, it was the woman’s dark eyes.

Her eyes were the softest brown infused with green as if she held the new spring growth inside of her. Combined with the graceful gentleness of her features and her pale skin, this woman could soothe anyone, even Belle.

Belle could feel her overactive imagination begin to go into overdrive, feeling as though it were reeling. Who was this woman and why was she here? Had she sought out Maurice’s grave, and if so, for what purpose?

Was this one a wise woman, somehow, come to offer supporting words of comfort? As she felt her lips part open slightly in shock as her brows came together in a confused frown, it was then that Belle was hit with a sudden realization. This robed woman was an enigma, and she was not sure if she liked it or not, given Belle considered herself an excellent judge of character, and the fact that she was unable to ascertain what she was thinking or feeling, greatly unnerved her. 

Belle turned, shifting at the waist to better face her, her head inclined in a slight bow, and fingers clasped in front of her. Belle let out a tiny muffled squeak and quickly dipped her head and bent her right knee and dropped into a low curtsy. “I—I am terribly sorry. I must have missed your name—I beg your pardon, milady, a—and I realize this might be forward of me, b—but…do I know you?” she asked, straightening her posture, and lifting her chin to meet the woman’s gaze. Her gaze fell upon a single flower in the stranger’s hand, the woman was fingering the delicate petal tenderly.

“Lilies,” the woman interjected, noticing Belle’s gawking expression. “They were your father’s favorite, once upon a time, if memory serves. Or so I was told.”

“Yes, they were,” Belle breathed, feeling her frown deepen as she watched the hooded woman take a few hesitant steps forward and gently placed the lily she was fingering her palms next to the one Belle had placed aside her father’s grave. A dozen questions were burning on the tip of her tongue, though only one she desperately wanted the answer to more than ever. “Did you…” She bit the wall of her cheek, unsure of how to phrase her question. “Did you know my father? You knew that he liked lilies.”

The hooded stranger regarded Belle in silence for a moment, studying the features of Belle’s face in a way that made her feel incredibly uneasy and not sure what to think. Nevertheless, after a moment she spoke, her voice soft and kind, as she motioned for Belle to join her and head back towards the direction of the cathedral. “A long time ago, I did. I am saddened to say that I found Maurice only in death, I am afraid. Your father was kind to me. He gave me bread and jam once, offered me shelter during a storm. We became friends. I would see him from time to time in the marketplace, and he would always have something for me. An apple, a piece of cheese.”

Belle hesitated for a fraction of a second and reluctantly felt her arm grip around the woman’s forearm as she allowed the strange woman with the thick head of strawberry blonde curls to escort her back to Notre Dame.

Every so often, she would shoot the hooded figure an inquisitive glance out of the corner of her eye at the woman, unable to quell the strange swooping sensation in her stomach or the sudden feeling of uneasiness that pricked at her heart. The woman swiveled her head to the left and smiled. Belle snapped her head away, embarrassed at having allowed herself to get caught staring in such a manner. She felt the heat creep to her cheeks as a light pink blush speckled along her cheeks. “You were friends with Papa?”

“I was.” Her answer was curt, and her voice carried a hardened edge that Belle could recognize from having spent so much time around Gaston, and the inventor’s daughter knew that it was time to change the subject.

It seemed ages before the woman spoke again, and Belle was beginning to grow grateful that she could see the towering parapets and buttresses of Notre Dame in the distance, and that they were almost back to her sanctuary, as the thunderclouds rolled and loomed in the distance, though with each footfall and step forward she took, it felt like the storm was growing closer. Belle swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat.

“Your father was a good man, strong in life, and unwaveringly kind and gentle, a good father, his spirit was strong, and he shall find his way to the hall of his fathers before him,” the woman answered after what felt like an eternity spent with just the pair of women walking in a thick silence. “He will be missed, but know that you are not alone, Belle,” she said softly.

“How do you know my name?” Belle immediately asked, unable to help herself as she turned her head and quirked a brow, managing a weary laugh that failed to disguise her sudden trepidation towards this woman.

She did not even know this woman, had never met her before, and yet somehow, she was familiar with Belle’s name. How was that possible?

The beautiful blonde noticed her questionable stare and chuckled lightly. “I am a beggar, my dear. Part of Monsieur Clopin Trouillefou’s camps,” she began, though there was an air of distance to her tone that Belle was not entirely sure she believed this woman’s claims, though for now she let it go. “Being out in the streets of Paris on a daily basis allows me to see and learn much during my time here in this city. No one pays very close attention to someone like me,” she explained, though she sounded cold.

At her remark, Belle raised an eyebrow in skepticism. This woman who had snuck up behind her in the graveyard looked entirely too put together to be a homeless nomad. No. Something was off. Not right at all.

The hooded figure let out another light little chuckle that to Belle sounded like the tinkling of a million bells and continued, either having noticed the younger girl’s suspicious looks Belle was in the midst of giving her and had chosen to ignore it, or she genuinely did not see the dark look.

“It works to my advantage,” the woman confessed, reaching up a hand to tuck a strawberry blonde curl back behind her ear, a sheepish, small half-smile tugging the corners of her luscious, pink lips upward into a kind smile that Belle could not help but to return, despite her initial misgivings for this woman before her, about whom she knew very little, her first real smile in two weeks. “I see and hear much and am generally able to remain undetected.” She glanced sideways and regarded Belle for a minute in silence. “I think that in a way, you are like me. I do not know how it is for you, I admit,” she confessed, looking pained, as the pair of them paused outside the steps of Notre Dame and she craned her neck upward to see, her dark eyes widening a little in awe and wonder at the magnificent cathedral.

The woman blinked, as if startled out of a stupor of sorts, and then forced her attentions to return towards Belle. “I do know that when I was your age, I always felt like a weed in a garden. I grew bold and headstrong, often where it was the least expected and apparently without an invitation. Those around me in my ah…social circle at the time did not take kindly to this, and I was cast aside and shunned. The simpleminded smallfolk, they cannot see what weeds are until they bloom,” the hooded woman growled darkly, her eyes clouding over with something akin to anger, bitterness laced throughout her otherwise quite kind tone, and just for a moment, Belle felt the very blood in her veins run cold and turn to ice, and she knew it had nothing to do with the cool October breeze that wafted their way just then.

Though this woman, from what she could tell in the precious fifteen minutes she had spent with her, seemed nice, she quickly got the impression that whoever this she-stranger was, she was not a woman to be trifled with.

Belle’s brows furrowed into a frown. Was that, then, how she had managed to sneak up behind Belle in the graveyard? How could she not have sensed her? She was silent. _Silent_. Her footfalls had been so light, airy, and she had heard _nothing_. Not even a whisper from the trees.

The mysterious woman glanced back towards Belle and smiled that little ambivalent smile that both excited Belle’s spirit and calmed her.

“Girls like you and I, we are flowers. French Roses and our fragrance is aromatic and our nectar as sweet as any other. As I hear yours was to a certain young noble _Prince_ of these lands, and there is another in your life,” she added sardonically, a dry smirk replacing the kind smile that had been etched upon her pretty features only moments ago.

Belle’s frowned deepened, unsure of how to phrase an appropriate response to the turn their conversation had inevitably taken. She could not stop the scrunching of her nose in disgust at just the mention of that vulgar Prince who had cornered her two weeks ago in the library on what she now would forever remember as the worst day of her life.

Suddenly, her lips felt quite dry, and she licked her lips to moisten them, though no benefit came. She gave out a pained wince as her stomach abruptly snarled and howled and from it, came the not-so-subtle undertone of pain. It came to young Belle in waves and it seemed as though her stomach was slowly digesting itself. She clutched at it, doubling over at the waist with one hand, her other hand clutching onto the auburn-haired woman’s arm tightening her grip upon the woman’s forearm. If her nails were raking into the fabric of the woman’s robes and piercing her soft flesh and hurting her, the she-stranger made no comment, for which she was grateful. Belle attempted in vain to silence the violent protests of her stomach, though to no avail. It cried even louder, earning her a curious and yet strangely knowing stare from her new acquaintance. It was a slow pain, eating away at her stomach and leaving her feeling drained and empty.

Belle bit the inside of her cheek as she slowly stood up and straightened her posture, feeling beads of sweat begin to form upon her brow and she swallowed, wishing for nothing more than a chalice of water.

“Would you care to accompany me inside? I—I am rather hungry, and I could see what we have in the kitchens for you too if you would like. You look as though you’ve not eaten in some time,” Belle offered in what she hoped was a kind and soothing tone. Something about this woman’s presence was calling to her, like one of those sirens in the tales of old.

Belle watched as the woman with the strawberry blonde curls gave a curt nod of her head, and without waiting for the inventor’s daughter to respond, she strode towards the wide oak double doors of the main sanctuary and opened them for Belle with next to little to no effort on her part.

“That is very kind of you, my child. You are incredibly sweet to offer to help someone like me,” the hooded woman spoke in a quiet voice. “I should like that very much, though I am afraid I cannot stay long, Belle.”

Belle gave a curt, silent nod of her head to silently communicate that she understood and hurried inside just as the first crack of thunder rent the air and let out a tiny squeak of fear as from the sky came a clipped boom of thunder, so loud, that it startled the young woman so badly, she almost shook on her spot as she crossed the threshold of the church’s front entrance and into the warmth of the cathedral. She let out a heavy sigh of relief.

The young woman was so engrossed with getting away from the storm and preoccupied with thoughts of food on her mind, that had she turned around to regard the hooded beggar woman, she would have seen the she-stranger staring up at one of the bell towers with a strange, inquisitive look in her amber eyes and a knowing little half-smirk forming on her lips.

She did not see the soft smile that crept on the beggar woman’s lips as the woman gingerly closed the door behind her.


	25. Of Feelings Unspoken

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

Belle could not stop the shiver that traveled down her spine and to the tips of her toes in her boots and she felt her arms wrap around her middle as she was still fairly cold, and the cathedral, despite the dozens of lit candelabras scattered through the main level of the sanctuary, did very little to warm the massive church.

“Come.” The woman’s voice spoke up. Belle turned back towards her new companion, who, she quickly realized, she had not yet even bothered to learn her name and she felt quite foolish. Her cheeks reddening as the woman with the strawberry blonde curls lowered the hood of her robes and regarded Belle with something akin to a quizzical little smile, Belle bent her right knee and sank into a brief curtsy. “Forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name earlier, madame?” she asked, standing up straighter and lifting her chin out slightly to meet the she-stranger’s gaze.

To her surprise, the woman’s lips crinkled into a light smile and she flashed a set of dazzlingly white teeth, almost too well-cared-for a simple beggar woman, which only confirmed Belle’s suspicions there was more to this woman than meets the eye, though given she had known her for all but of a precious fifteen minutes at best, she thought it not her place to comment on such matter. The only thing she was able to ascertain was that she knew that she liked this curly-haired she-stranger. Belle could not explain it, though she decided not to fight this strange feeling.

“Forgive me. I am afraid the pleasantries must have slipped my mind earlier. My name is Agathe, child,” answered the woman after a long silence, and before Belle could even fathom what was happening, she felt the edges of her lips curl up into a soft smile as the older woman offered Belle her arm, holding it out for her to take. “Come,” she instructed, and there was a hardened edge to her voice that compelled Belle to obey. “Walk with me, dear. Keep me company a minute. It has been so long since I’ve had another woman in my life.” But her voice trailed off and the woman who Belle now knew to be called Agathe did not complete her sentence and looked away for a moment, seemingly showing an interest in the marble statues of the saints, particularly the Virgin Mary clutching onto baby Jesus.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Belle breathed as her gaze followed Agathe’s as she heard the sharp intake of breath from the woman as she reached up to her free hand and tucked back a strawberry blonde curl behind her ear. “I love how peaceful and quiet it is here, but…I—I wish that I could feel His presence, but I haven’t been able to since Papa’s murder.”

Agathe turned to regard Belle as she led her down the main aisle of the nave, having seemingly been engrossed in absorbing the details of the various statues and the stained glass artwork of the window. Her gaze, Belle had noticed, seemed particularly interested in the Rose Window, an enormous panel of stained glass that depicted a beautiful flower. A rose. “You are troubled, child, and not over the loss of your father. Something else is on your mind, my dear. You can talk to me about it if you wish.” Agathe spoke to Belle without looking directly at her, whether that was to spare Belle the embarrassment of the woman seeing how flushed her cheeks were or to ensure it was easier for Belle to open up to her.

The beggar woman finally tore her gaze away from the stained glass depiction of the rose, though, after today, Agathe knew it would forever remind of the days ahead for the young woman when her life would irrevocably change. Whether that was for the better or not, only time would tell.

There were some things that even Agathe had not the answer to. 

Belle watched as Agathe gave her head the tiniest of shakes, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing with the simple movement as she did so, and prevented a light little chuckle from escaping her lips as her right hand drifted towards her left and her fingers fidgeted with her simple yellow gold wedding band.

Her expression softened a little, though it was quickly replaced by a look of immense disgust and she removed her wedding ring and before she could fathom what she was doing, Belle felt her arm draw back and hefted the piece of jewelry as far as she could, where both women heard the ring clatter to the ground behind one of the marble columns. Belle did not bother to retrieve it, nor did she even look back. Belle heard Agathe exhale a slightly shaking breath through her nose as she clutched onto Belle’s arm and felt the woman’s head lean into rest slightly on the crook of her neck.

“What ails you, sweet girl?” Agathe spoke up, finally unable to remain silent any longer on this matter. “Your husband, from what I knew of Gaston Dupont, was not a terribly pleasant man, and what happened to poor old Maurice was a crime of the highest order. I have…heard rumors,” she began hesitantly, glancing over her shoulder towards one of the stairwells that Agathe had a sneaking suspicion led to the north or south bell tower lofts. “That you had…some help in that regard, did you not? The cathedral’s bell ringer, he saved you? Not from just your husband, but a Prince of these lands, would I be correct in my assumption?” she asked, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout, and Agathe stifled her restraint to allow a small smile to cross her features as she heard the recently widowed young woman’s soft gasp.

“I—I did, y—yes, he did save my life that night, b—but how did you know of this? You weren’t there,” Belle breathed, feeling her dark eyes widen in astonishment as they paused by one of the windows depicting Saint Aphrodisias, and the young brunette turned to regard Agathe with no small amount of wonder in her eyes. Agathe offered a coy little smile that was more like a smirk as she folded her arms across her chest and shrunk into her robe as much as she could for warmth.

“A beggar, dear, remember? I hear and see things,” she chuckled, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.

“O—oh.” Belle stammered, the heat creeping on her cheeks as she nervously weaved her fingers in between her knuckles. “I…yes, I did. The—the bell ringer of the cathedral and I, he…we…are _friends_ ,” she finished lamely, averting her gaze to the floor, where she feigned an active interest in the black and white checkered tile beneath their boots. “He is…kind.” Perhaps it was the softness and tenderness in Belle’s voice that prompted Agathe to continue, and Belle blinked owlishly at the beautiful strawberry blonde in surprise as the older woman spoke up again.

“You care for him.” It was not a question, coming from the hooded woman. “The world needs more genuine love in it if you ask me. A love that does not discriminate between gender, culture, race. Love should not cast one group out in favor of another, Belle. Love does not refuse to understand the hurts of another person or people. It seeks to build bridges, to bring out the best in one another, and if you truly care for the boy, well, then it is up to you, my dear, if you should choose to act upon these feelings. Now that you are widowed, I do not believe it would be a problem for you if you were to pursue the young boy, Belle…”

A snort from Belle through her nose caused Agathe to at first assume the young woman was on the verge of a meltdown and break down into tears, much how she had when Agathe had first spotted the dear young thing kneeling by her father’s unmarked grave earlier.

Though when the young brunette turned to regard Agathe, there was a look of amusement intermingled with something that Agathe could only describe as self-pity etched upon the young girl’s pretty features, though there was no mistaking the gleaming of unshed tears that threatened to cascade down her pale cheeks in graceful tracts. “I—it’s not funny at all, b—but I—if it’s not funny, th—then why am I laughing about this? I—I can’t help it!”

Belle reached up a slightly trembling hand to wipe away a stray tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye, and the beggar woman’s eyes were inexplicably drawn to Belle Dupont’s nails. The young brunette noticed Agathe looking and quickly tried to hide her nails under the overly long sleeves of her black mourning gown, but it was already much too late. The girl’s nails were long, almost like claws, and Agathe could not help but to wonder if the inventor and painter’s daughter kept them like this on purpose as perhaps her only means of defense in terms of warding off unwanted advances from undesirable menfolk.

The lines on Belle’s palm caught the beggar woman’s attention. They swirled on the skin of her palm like an unfinished drawing. Belle’s fingers were bone white and soft, though cold to the touch as Agathe reached out what she hoped was a reassuring hand and curled her fingers overtop Belle’s shoulder and gave the recently widowed young woman a light, reassuring little squeeze. Agathe’s frown deepened.

“You do not want the boy, then?”

“I…” Belle’s voice was faint and barely above a whisper. “I—I do,” she confessed, and the way she whispered it and uttered her confession to her new acquaintance made it sound as though it were little more than a dirty secret, one that she was ashamed greatly of. Belle flinched and shirked away from the beggar woman’s touch as the woman’s grip upon her shoulder slackened, and Agathe dropped her arm and let it fall to her side. It seemed to take the older woman ages to find her voice, but when she did, Agathe’s voice was resolute, determined. “I want very much for you to be happy, Belle. Women like you and I, in our position, we must make the best of our circumstances in his life, should we not try?”

The inventor’s daughter knitted her brows together in quandary and looked away for a moment, up at one of the statues, ignoring a pained growl from her stomach, unpleasantly reminding her of her hunger, though it did not escape the beggar woman’s attention that the younger girl had a strange look of longing on her face, in her eyes. “My situation is… _unique_ ,” Belle admitted, at last, a pained expression in her eyes as she folded her hands together and inclined her head. “I had dreams once. Foolish ones, that I would marry a lord or a great prince one day. Or a knight, perhaps,” she sighed wistfully. “But life has killed that dream.”

Agathe bit the inside wall of her cheek as she regarded the young brunette woman in silence for a moment as she latched onto Belle’s arm and slowly steered her towards the hallway, where the smell of something cooking wafted through the air. Maurice’s daughter had such a contented little inflection in her voice whenever she spoke of the possible outcomes of a different life for herself, had her circumstances been better, and Agathe wondered briefly if she should offer kindness to the child, for not many in the streets of Paris, save for perhaps Monsieur Clopin, had dared to show her an ounce of generosity. And then there was Belle.

A young girl barely older than twenty-three, who had escorted Agathe back to this magnificent cathedral, this glorious House of God, Paris’ own Lady of Peace, and was offering her sanctuary and food in order to wait out the thunderstorm. There was kindness in Belle’s smile, a gentleness. Agathe could see it for herself whenever the young woman met her gaze. It was the smile of one who laughed with ease and saw the person underneath the layers and their behaviors. A soul-connector. Maurice’s daughter was the kind of person who lived how she believed that people ought to as if she were sunshine that only radiated from the best aspects of those she met, their flaws entirely invisible to Belle Dupont’s gaze.

The girl’s dark chocolate eyes spoke of a beautiful soul, filled with a kindness that seemed so innocent and genuine so endless, as big as the sea, and her movements told of a need for nurture. The beggar woman was jolted out of her musings as she forced her attention to return to Maurice’s daughter, who was in the midst of completing a thought. Agathe blinked and hoped it was not evident upon her face that she had allowed her mind to wander for a moment. She let out a sigh.

“…A-and even though I want to—to develop a—a relationship with him, surely, you’ve seen how the rest of Paris treats a poor soul like him! Were that I could, I should hope for a future for us, but I do not see how our king would allow it.” The note of bitterness in Belle’s tone was unmistakable, though Agathe suspected that it was not to do as much with the fact that she was a recently widowed young woman still in her prime and wrestling with feelings for a man who, by rights, was not accepted by Parisian society and was shunned, regarded as very much an outcast.

For there was a strange look in Belle’s eyes, a growing fondness, perhaps even affection that would, in time, develop to feelings of love, whenever she spoke of Notre Dame’s elusive bell ringer, but still, the beggar woman could tell something else was troubling her. No. It was something else that was raging war within the confines of Belle Dupont’s mind, though what that thing was, or those things were, only Maurice’s daughter knew for sure.

“You don’t want him, then?” Agathe repeated her question, clutching onto the young brunette’s arm and upon hearing the poor girl’s stomach gave out another pang of hunger, she quickly realized they needed to head towards the kitchens. The beggar woman’s grip upon the younger girl’s arm tightened as she recognized that Belle’s posture had stiffened the closer that they got to the kitchens.

“Yes, no, I—I do, b—but…th—this is all happening so quickly, I think,” Belle stammered, averting the older woman’s gaze as an incredible fiery heat crept onto her cheeks at a rapid place, though out of curiosity, she glanced at Agathe out of the corner of her eyes. “Were that I could, I would…be with him, if society would allow for such a match, but if it will not, then it is my burden to bear.”

“So, you _do_ want him in that way, then? Your feelings…extend beyond that of friendship?” Agathe questioned, wanting to get to the root of whatever ailed Belle’s mind. The beggar woman shook her head, sending a silent prayer to God and His angels above that the girl would take better care of her words uttered within these holy walls, for even here in the cathedral, spiders lurked, men like the infamous Judge Claude Frollo, whom Agathe had gone explicitly out of her way to avoid.

The beggar woman would not have put it past the judge to have ears and ears everywhere, including within the cathedral, even when he was not present. You never could tell who you could wholly trust, and this disturbed Agathe greatly.

The young widow may be a pretty little budding rose, clever and intelligent, but that would not do her any good in her new situation, for Agathe could tell the girl wanted more out of life, and that a difficult decision would await her in future.

Belle would have to be clever but in a different kind of way. Unfortunately, given how distraught she was and how thin and emaciated she looked over the loss of her father, Agathe was beginning to think that Belle did not have the capacity to do so. She blinked in surprise when the young brunette woman turned and regarded Agathe, and answered her swiftly and honestly, wringing her hands together tightly.

“I…” Belle bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout, unshed moisture glistening in her dark chocolate eyes. “Yes, you are right,” she confessed, reaching up a hand to tuck a lock of hair back behind her shoulder. “B—but I am afraid,” she whispered. “I have never…had the experience of… _pleasure_ ,” she emphasized, her cheeks reddening maddeningly and Agathe could not help but notice Belle Dupont, that she sounded far more intrigued of the possibility of spending a night in love’s embrace with someone who would genuinely care for her. “I have none nothing but abuse and neglect at my husband’s hand, for over a year. Wh—when I was married to Gaston, he—he _took_ me, every single night. He _raped_ me, over and over again, so often that I thought I would just die, and I came to wish for death. Anything would have been better than seeing my husband’s face light up with power and lust every night in our marriage bed. I still remember what he said to me on our marriage night, when Gaston asked me what I thought of him. ‘ _I could be crueler to you still, wife_ ,’ and he was,” she growled through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, her nails digging into the palms of her hands as her hands shook at her side. “I _hate_ him, Agathe…what he _took_ from me! Th—when my father was _murdered_ in front of me, and Gaston forced me to watch, as my father was ripped apart limb from limb, his throat torn out, and I thought I would _die_ with all the hate in my veins, and now…without the hate I feel for him, I _know_ that I would! There isn’t a part of me that feels anything else anymore. Without it, I’d _be_ nothing, _feel_ nothing, so why should I eat? Why should I sleep? Why continue to breathe? There’s nothing left for me here, no reason to continue going forward,” she cried, blinking back briny tears and swallowing hard.

Belle turned to face the wall, her face creased and her fists closed so tight she could feel the sweat trapped inside them as red-hot fiery tears of shame and anger ran down her face, each one carving furrows on the tender flesh that still stung from her husband’s slaps as the memory of times when his sinewy arm would drawback and backhand her across her cheek, how she would recoil, cry, and beg for him to stop.

The tears continued to pour down her cheeks, like water flowing through the drains, rubbing salt into her open wounds. Belle coughed once, blinking back the salty liquid that ran down her pale face and sniffed once to regain composure.

“I—I never would have expected if you were to ask me a few years ago that my life would come to this,” Belle sighed and cast a wary glance towards Agathe.

The beggar woman had pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and was regarding Belle with an inquisitive look in her eyes that Belle wasn’t sure what to make of, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she liked it. She wanted to look away, and yet, something in her slightly hardened gaze told Belle that she needed not to. “My child, I am afraid I must correct you. You are _not_ alone in all of this, as I have mentioned to you before. What about _him_?” Agathe questioned, a wry little smirk forming on her lips as she glanced back over her shoulder towards one of the bell tower stairwells. “Your friend, this bell ringer that you’ve developed a close relationship with, it seems. Has he mistreated you in any way during your weeks of friendship?” Agathe asked solemnly. She had a feeling she knew the answer.

“No.” Belle’s answer was immediate and left her lips without any semblance of hesitation, though her dark brown eyes were wide and round with astonishment.

“Has he been kind to you?” the beggar woman pressed. When Belle mutely nodded, confirming the older woman’s suspicions, she felt her frown deepen in confusion. “Then you will have to correct me, for I fail to see the problem here?”

“H—his…father, his master, the—the judge, he does not want me around his…son.” The words escaped Belle’s lips in a hushed whisper, as though she were afraid to confess her revulsion for the silver-haired Judge that was more demon than man. Though Agathe could not fault the girl for her fear and trepidation of the man.

“Somehow, I get the feeling that will not stop you, my dear,” chuckled the beggar woman. “For if you truly took the man’s words to heart, you would have already stopped seeing this bell ringer in his tower three weeks ago, am I right?” Agathe knew the moment her words left her mouth that they had hit their mark, for she was surprised to see Belle’s face pale even more than it already was, as what little color was left in her cheeks drained, and Belle’s face was rendered pallid and sickly, and the widowed young brunette began to nervously intertwine her fingers together in anticipation.

She watched as Maurice’s daughter held her breath and emanated a tense, slightly shaking exhale through her nose. The young brunette blinked as she quickly realized that Agathe had asked of her a question that she had somehow missed in her musings over the beggar woman’s words regarding Frollo. “My apologies,” Belle stammered, her blush deepening. “I was not listening.”

Again, the beggar woman smiled at the inventor’s daughter and her grip upon Belle’s arm tightened as she led the young girl towards the kitchens, and she could feel Belle’s body stiffen.

“It matters not,” Agathe sighed, letting out a wistful sigh. “I was merely saying that, given the opportunity to prove himself, if you will allow him, I think that this bell ringer could be quite the charmer in the…right moods. You are quite fortunate, my child, to have garnered the man’s attentions. Something in your eyes tells me you would much rather have his heart than that of the Prince’s.” Agathe did not bother to hide her wry smile as the younger girl’s face blanched at the mention of the Prince who, if the rumors were true, had also seemingly taken an active interest in Belle and had attempted to corner the girl.

“He’s vile and cruel, and a monster,” Belle growled through clenched teeth, folding her arms across her chest. “The—night he tried to…I looked in his eyes and saw nothing there but hatred for me. Why does he hate me so much? I don’t even know the man!” she protested, blinking back another wave of tears, her third of the day, and wondering if there would ever come an end to her tears. Belle sighed.

“Our Prince does not hate you, Belle, despite what you may think,” Agathe chuckled, observing the catch of Belle’s breath and her sudden tenseness as she adjusted her gait and posture and stood taller, straighter, more resolute. “His hatred that night of you was nothing more than a transformation of his own shame and insecurity. It is all of himself that he despises yet lacks the courage and convictions to face. It is far easier for Prince Adam to lose himself in the theatrics of his own mind, casting himself as the victim, than it is for the Prince to swallow even an ounce of truth.”

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. “You talk as if you know the Prince. You know him?” she asked, finding it personally hard to believe that a beautiful woman such as Agathe would ever dare to associate with the likes of a horrid beast.

But the woman shook her head, her curls moving softly as she did so. “Not personally, no. I have heard of him, but as a woman of the streets and going wherever the wind takes me, I have never physically met the man.” Belle frowned at the use of the word ‘man’ to describe the Prince, for he had behaved monstrously towards her.

The woman noticed Belle’s brow furrowed and laid a gentle hand on Belle’s shoulder and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do not underestimate the Prince, milady. And though I only have the whispers and rumors of what I hear through my connections to his staff in his precious castle that borders the edge of the woods, I hold out hope for the young man one day, that someday, he will be much changed.”

Belle hesitated, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout. “I doubt it,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. “That Prince was not at all like Quasi, he’s so kind, so sweet. Nothing at all like the Prince. No jealousy, no meanness. But…” her voice cracked and wavered as her voice trailed off and she fell silent.

It felt as though Belle was finally about to arrive at the heart of their conversation and get to the point of their talk, whatever was weighing so heavily on her fragile. The beggar woman watched as the young brunette woman bit the wall of her cheeks and curled her fingers into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palm. “But?” Agathe pressed, sensing that Maurice’s daughter needed assistance, just that little bit of prodding to coax the truth out of her. “I sense that you are still troubled.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak as Agathe’s grip tightened on her arm as they neared the kitchens, and had been about to answer her new companion when the smell of butchered venison lingered in the air and wafted through Belle’s nostrils, and she was overcome by such a strong bout of queasiness in the pit of her stomach that she could go no further. She shot out an arm and clutched onto a nearby marble pillar for support, retching and gagging, though nothing was coming up, and then she remembered Quasimodo’s words about demanding she eat, and she had eaten nothing out of spite, wishing for nothing more at the time than to be left well alone. She had not broken her fast this morning, nor ate lunch or even supper.

With one violent contraction, the congealed contents of her stomach emerged in the dim light from the torches resting on the cathedral’s walls, nothing digested since the evening before. Belle wiped at her mouth shakily, unaware that the beggar woman’s hands were resting on her shoulders, one holding back her hair, the other, rubbing small, comforting circles on the small of her back, just near her spine.

“Belle? Belle? Are you all right?” Agathe’s voice sounded muffled and distant, far away, as if underwater, or perhaps that was just the incessant ringing of her eardrums. Belle mutely nodded as her nausea slowly cleared and she exhaled a few more times through her nose as she straightened her gait with the help of her new friend. “Would you like me to find one of the nuns for you or the healing maester?”

The beggar woman’s suggestion escaped her lips before she could so much as stop herself, and throughout her tones were laced with vexation and clearly on the brink of hyperventilation. The older woman, Belle noticed, was quite skittish, as if on edge.

Belle swallowed and let out a sigh, shaking clutching onto the wall for support as the waves of nausea slowly passed and the black dots quit swimming in front of her vision.

“Y—yes, I—I think that is for the best.” She paused as the beggar woman began to tug on the sleeve of her black mourning gown. “No, I—I could take myself, please. I know the way to Sister Alice’s quarters,” she whispered, “b—but wait for a second,” she pleaded, gingerly shrugging her arm out of the beggar woman’s grasp and ducking behind the kitchen door, gagging again as the smell of the boiled meat wafted through her nose, and she pinched her nose shut and rummaged through the basket of food stores underneath one of the counters until she found what she was looking for, and quickly ducked back out with a freshly baked baguette loaf and a sealed jar of jam underneath her arm. “For—for your troubles,” she gasped weakly.

Agathe felt her lips curl up into a genuine smile as she gingerly accepted the gracious gift of the bread and jam, taking them from her, though Belle could tell it did not quite reach her eyes. “You are too kind to this old woman, Belle. I should like to repay you for your kindness. I am afraid I do not have any money, but if you would like, I would be happy to bless you, tell you your fortune, sweet, sweet girl…”

Her voice trailed off as she waited. Belle blinked owlishly at the beggar woman and was not given a chance to respond as the older woman led her away from the rotten smells of the venison cooking, noticing how it sent painful lurches through Belle’s stomach, and she clamped a hand over her nose to prevent herself from vomiting again. It was not until they stood closer towards the opposing hallway, away from the kitchens and the source of the smell that was causing the young woman such discomfort, that the beggar woman smiled at Belle again.

“I can see that has piqued your interest. Give me your hand.” Before Belle could even utter so much a single yes or no, the woman with the strawberry-blonde curls took hold of her left hand and gazed deep into Belle’s eyes, as if searching for something. And, as if by witch’s curse, Belle found herself unable to pull away. “You will find happiness here,” she murmured after spending a moment in silence, narrowing her eyes, her gaze intensifying. “And love. True love. Different than what you had with Gaston. Your love for one another will be pure and true, and this person will—”

Just as Belle had been so engrossed in the woman’s blessing, Agathe suddenly let go of Belle’s hand and recoiled it back, rubbing it gingerly, as if Belle’s very skin of her palm had burned her, and her beautiful features contorted into an expression that Belle could only describe as greatly disturbed, perhaps even afraid.

“Wh—what is it?” Belle whispered worriedly, wringing her hands together.

Agathe pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and furrowed her brows into a frown, gingerly rubbing her hand and flexing her fingers. “Nothing for you to trouble yourself over, my darling child. I thought that I merely saw…” She shook her head to clear it, her frown deepening. “Never mind.”

Belle opened her mouth to retort but did not get a chance as the woman’s brows furrowed in confusion and she stared off into space for a moment, seeming to be lost in deep concentration. Just as quickly as it had come, however, Agathe snapped out of it and returned her attention back towards Belle.

“My dear, I have kept you far too long. It is much too late for you to still be up, and you are looking quite ill, if I may speak freely with you,” the beggar woman commented, taking note of how pale Belle’s face looked, beads of sweat gathered on her brow, a feverish tint to her skin, dark circles from lack of sleep forming underneath her dark eyes. “You should go. Ask for…what did you say her name was, Sister Alice? And you should get some sleep. You would not want the wrong person to catch you awake at this hour aimlessly wandering the halls, wouldn’t you?”

With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Belle realized the beautiful beggar woman was right. The blonde woman pulled up the hood of her robe to conceal most of her face in the darkness, a soft, knowing little smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she gingerly reached out an arm and shoved Belle towards the direction of the nun’s personal quarters. “Go. Go see the nun or the healing maester.”

Belle gave a mute nod, right as her stomach gave another painful lurch as she stumbled down the hallway, and with each step, her stomach tightened and ached all the more. Belle kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what, she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest and she shivered.

She had never felt so bruised inside. Belle paused in the hallway, nervously lacing her fingers together and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as one final question burned on the tip of her tongue, prompting her to turn around to ask of the mysterious beautiful beggar woman one final question. “Will I see you again?”

Belle turned around gingerly, back towards where she had left her new acquaintance, only to be talking to thin air, as if Agathe had never been there in the first place. Almost like…

“Magic,” whispered Belle nervously, slightly awestruck, and horrified. She would have lingered in the corridor longer, content to stare after the space where the she-stranger had stood only moments before, wondering if this was all somehow a hallucination brought on by grief, but she could not ignore the swooping sensation in her stomach, nor the acidic warm feeling of the bile as it crept up her throat.

She winced, hoping that Sister Alice would still be awake at this late hour and could give her a tonic in some tea to help settle her stomach, perhaps some essence of nightshade to help her sleep. Belle bit the wall of her cheek and jumped slightly as a man’s voice from directly behind her interrupted her thoughts, a deep baritone.

“You again. What are you doing here at this late hour wandering the hallways, child?” the man spoke in a low, rumbling voice. Belle cringed and turned around slowly. “I thought I made it quite clear, dear. Certain areas are…off-limits, girl.”

Belle swallowed the acidic stomach bile coating her tongue and hoped the fear in her eyes did not betray her as she slowly turned around and found herself face-to-face with Judge Claude Frollo. The way the Judge’s cold gray eyes squinted as Judge Frollo glowered at Belle, his head inclined, and hands folded neatly in front of him as he awaited her answer, reminded Belle of a pit viper’s slit-like pupils, cold and mean.

She gulped nervously. A burning animosity was rapidly developing in Frollo’s eyes, and Belle could tell that she was most likely the root cause of the problem.

Could this night possibly get _any_ worse?

Apparently, Belle thought, as she looked up into the Judge’s eyes, it could.


	26. To Accept Your Fate

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

Claude hadn't expected to spot Belle on his way to speak with Father Darius regarding complaints of their cathedral guard’s soldiers, and how the lack of notable presence the night the Prince of these lands visited was inexcusable, but it was pure chance that he spotted the young brunette taking a stroll through the hallways, her nose buried in a book and she had a look on her face that he hadn't seen before, but he didn't deny he'd wished for it whenever he enticed her to come to him. She had stars in her eyes, truly a sight to behold. Claude stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen, not until he wanted her to spot him.

There she was. His beauty, her dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, such a delicate little bird, trapped here, in a cage, and he, only _he_ , could set the Dupont widow free—a painting for his eyes alone. He could not even begin to explain how the day Belle Dupont dared to defy his orders and talk back to him had set his insides aflame, like the brightest Hellfire, how, though it had been a precious three weeks since his last visit to the cathedral, the sereneness of the girl’s smile was drenched in his memory, her eyes haunting her behind his closed lids at nighttime. The night was the only time he could be with his love, catching a whiff of her sweet and subtle scent, drowning in her intoxicating scent.

Some nights, Claude calmed the excitement in his soul to prevent waking his beauty as he watched her fall asleep in her chambers, as he had done so many times before, she unaware of it all. Even in sleep, she was beautiful to him. When she was awake, though, the budding rose was utterly radiant.

One day, he'll be so much more than just a stranger towards her. She will be his to love forever, and how sweet it will be when that time will come for them both.

He watched, concealed under the cover of the darkness of the shadows, as she moved in the light, the beams of moonlight shone through the stained glass windows, giving the petite woman an ethereal, haunting appearance, almost like a spirit. Claude loved her softness, her eyes showed him her essence—her very soul, so pure, and innocent.

Passion turned her eyes into the brightest orbs of fire and every time he looked into Belle Dupont’s dark brown eyes, he knew that she would fight to the very last tear for her life. She would not let the world break her. Her passion made her beautiful. Belle Dupont’s little imperfections to him made her perfect.

There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements and a quiet softness to her voice like a soft wind in the summer. Her skin was pale, glowing as she moved, so fragile, and yet so flawless and smooth, so soft. The Judge admired the way her black dress of velvet and lace—one he'd painstakingly gone out of his way to give her—flowed with her movements, seeming to float with her as she moved. To the Judge, she was perfection.

_You'll make a good wife to me soon, my love_. He wanted her, and she would not go to him. Pursuing the one who refused him made it that much more of a challenge, but he liked a good challenge. She would go to him if he had to force her. She was his. No one else’s.

Belle had lifted the hem of her gem to walk without tripping, and he caught a glimpse of her delicate bare feet, pale and perfect, like her. Her movements were silent and ethereal, gliding as she moved in the moonlight. Claude could remain silent no longer and spoke up.

“What are you doing out here, my child?”

* * *

Oh, by God and His Angels above, and the Seven Hells below, this night could not _possibly_ get any _worse_. Belle glanced nervously back behind her, as though mysteriously expecting the beggar woman to suddenly materialize out of thin air and appear right by her side again. For a moment, she wished that were the case, as she did not wish to face Judge Claude Frollo alone. However, judging by the stony look in the man’s impassive expression, Belle could see gaining no benefit by lying to the judge as to why she was out wandering the halls at this late hour.

“A—a stomachache, Your Grace,” she murmured, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks as she dared to adjust her stance and make to head in the general direction towards Sister Alice’s quarters. “N—now that my husband and father are gone, I—I have no home anymore,” she whispered. “A fever, I think,” she managed to gasp out hoarsely, wishing for nothing more than the tiled floor beneath her boots would open up and swallow her whole, not letting her re-emerge until the Judge was well and truly gone. “I—I was hoping that Sister Alice would be awake,” she murmured, painfully twisting her fingers together, biting the wall of her cheek.

She was not aware that she’d drawn in abated breath and held it until she heard herself release a tense exhale through her nose, her nostrils flaring like that of an angry bull’s.

Belle did not know entirely what kind of a reaction she was anticipating from the judge, and she swallowed nervously past the growing lump in her throat as she had to crane her neck up to regard the judge, given that he was much taller than she was, by at least a foot or more.

But then again, most of the men here in Paris were taller than Belle, and she thought it not fair, how short she was. When the Judge spoke, his baritone voice was languid and smooth.

“I am afraid that Alice’s ah…sleeping habits are rather unorthodox, my child, there is every chance that she would still be up. Was it perhaps something that you ate?” he added, his graying brows furrowing into a frown as he, for the first time since stumbling across the girl, truly got a good look at her features. “And I was sorry to hear of your father and husband.”

Belle blinked, unable to hide her feelings of shock upon her ashen features. She was quite certain that she would have faced Claude’s fury. She bowed her head in submission and bent her right knee, gathering the skirts of her black mourning gown in her hands, dipping into a low curtsy, careful to mind her manners around the tyrannical, pompous, aging fool of a judge.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, painfully twisting her fingers together, and bit the wall of her cheek in trepidation as Judge Frollo surprisingly held out a robed arm and offered it to her.

“Alice’s quarters are this way. Come. I myself was unable to sleep, and whenever I cannot sleep, I wander the halls. I find it calms my mind. What of you, child? What ails your mind?”

Belle blinked, uncertain if what she was hearing was genuine. “I…when I lie awake at night, all I can see is my father’s face, right before he…before he died,” she whispered hoarsely. “I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I can’t even pray to God anymore, Your Honor…”

Claude was barely able to stifle his smile as he stepped from the shadows and allowed the warmth of the lit torch on the wall behind Belle Dupont’s head nearby to bathe half of his careworn, lined face in the dim light, and by this, he was better able to study the young widow’s movements and her range of facial expressions. He could practically see the young brunette’s emotions in those dark chocolate orbs of hers. A wide range of emotions flickered throughout her eyes at having unexpectedly wandered into him at nearing the witching hour.

It did not, however, stop the look of pure, unadulterated terror that flitted through the girl’s dark eyes, though the multitude of feelings that passed through the Dupont widow’s eyes ranged from complete disgust to yes, even fear for him, and perhaps, even…victory.

She thought she had won. Claude felt his frown deepen as he regarded the young woman. He was deeply beginning to regret his decision not to evict the child from the cathedral following the girl’s husband’s murder, as well as that of her father, but he liked to consider himself a decent, honorable man, and he would not turn away a soul in need of sanctuary.

Though there was something glistening in the girl’s dark eyes aside from the moisture that threatened to escape her lids, something mysterious that Claude found he wanted to know the secret to. The Judge watched her stand there, her hand numbly overtop his arm as she allowed Claude to escort her towards Alice’s chambers, his gaze fixated at the unspoken sad story behind her rich brown eyes. A woman of almost twenty and one much too young, his own misshapen ward’s age, too lovely, to bear the face of a widow now her husband was gone.

He blinked, startled, even adorned in black velvet and lace as her mourning gown was now as she grieved for the loss of her father and husband, even in a strange sunburst of sadness like this, the girl was still so pretty, and for a moment, he did not fault Quasimodo for becoming ensnared in the woman’s trap. His callused fingers dug into the skin of his palm, the hand currently not guiding the young brunette woman further down the hall, as hard as he could.

Oh, yes. He had allowed his misshapen wretch of a ward, no longer a boy, and fully grown in body and mind at the age of twenty-two, to continue to see the girl, despite his initial warning to the young woman now clutching onto his arm in a vice grip to stay away from him.

Partially because he wanted to see if the rumors that he had heard from the other gossiping hens, these nuns if they were true. If this girl and Quasimodo were spending increasing amounts of time together. And so, he had spied on them. Watching them talk walks throughout the cathedral, the boy behaving in a much more animated fashion than whenever Claude was around. He had been standing in the corner of his study room window for hours, just across the way of the cathedral’s library, watching the girl sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and read to him, seeming not to mind at all when the redheaded bell ringer wrapped an arm around her slender waist. It was repugnant. He had meditated like death for hours.

Claude did not know what to make of this new development, and he could feel his jaw clenching, his teeth grinding in silent anger. How he had seen them just last week—the way Belle Dupont held the vicious bastard whispered a threat to Claude’s ambitions for the boy.

She was unhinging him, from where he had watched behind a pillar. He had never once believed Quasimodo capable of being reigned in by attention, especially in the arms of a girl.

_A demon and an angel. Oil and water_. _These two are not meant to mingle like this, this witch’s heathen ways involving corrupting my son’s mind must be stopped, one way or another_.

Claude furrowed his brows as he recollected finding the abandoned babe on the steps of Notre Dame, how when he had pulled back the bundle of cloth concealing the newborn’s face, he had been repulsed by the cretin’s monstrous appearance. The Judge at the time had wanted nothing more than to throw the squirming demonic bundle down into the well nearby, or take him into the sea up to his knees and let the waves carry him away, resolved to let the monster go, to see the swaddled bundle crash against the sharp rocks of the ocean, but when the baby’s eyes had lazily open, revealing a pale azure light, Claude had been disarmed. Jehan’s eyes and it was then that Claude hated himself.

For the child, his deceased brother’s spawn, this demon, this monstrous whelp, was now Claude’s burden, his cross to bear, a test sent to him by the Lord to prove his worth, and now that the boy was a grown adult, both in body and mind, possessing the very basest and carnal of urges that had gotten Jehan killed, and had left him with the wretch, he knew that this girl holding onto his arm was the cause. And that, he could simply not allow.

Claude bit the wall of his cheek, wondering if it would soon be occasion enough to pay another visit to the Prince soon, in a day or two. The Judge furrowed his brows into a light frown as he noticed the young brunette beauty turn her head away and swallow hard, one hand clutching onto her stomach, as if in pain. “Are you in agony, my child?” he asked, already full well knowing the answer, and not giving her time to answer as he watched her lips part open to offer a response. “We are almost to Alice’s. Now that…given your circumstances,” the Judge began hesitantly. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

He did not know what possessed him to ask such a thing of Belle, but all of a sudden, he needed to hear her answer.

“I…I do not know,” she confessed, her voice sounding pained. It matched her expression. “I—I know that you said that I was to stay away from Quasimodo, b—but…I have nowhere else. No place to call my home, Your Grace. Might that I could stay inside the cathedral, I—I would…”

Claude glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at the bewitching beauty of a French Rose clutched onto his arm. Just the simple touch of her bone-white hand atop his was enough to send a fiery, overwhelming heat spiraling between his legs, invoking long-forgotten feelings of lust and sweet, delectable sin, feelings that had since lain dormant, ever since La Esmeralda.

He bit the wall of his cheek and prayed that she did not notice. His sudden desire was reaching his limit. If he did not act on it soon, there was no telling what he would do to the girl.

“You may stay,” he heard himself say, as he lowered his tone an octave, watching out of the corner of his peripherals as the girl blinked in surprise, and for the briefest of moments, a small smile crept onto her pretty face, and Claude found himself wishing that it would stay.

Belle dipped her head in acknowledgment, at first seemingly stunned into silence as the power of speech fled her lips. “Th—thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered faintly. “I…”

But her voice trailed off as the Judge fixed her with a stony stare, his lips pursed into a thin, rigid line. “My… _arrangement_ for you, however, does not come without its conditions.”

Belle stifled a pained wince as the Judge’s hand drifted down and came to grip on her wrist, hard enough to break it. She inhaled a sharp breath that sent swells of nausea wracking her frame and she fought back the urge to vomit for the third time in one night. Gods, why was she so _sick_? Belle nervously fidgeted with her knuckles, wanting to look away from Judge Claude Frollo’s listless gaze, and found that she could not do it at all.

“Stay away from the bell ringer, child. He is nothing but an accursed wretch, and he should ruin your life if given the opportunity. You have already had a hard enough life these last two weeks, mademoiselle, do you really want to make it harder on yourself, Dupont? I will, out of the _kindness_ of my heart, allow you to remain within the cathedral, but should I find that you are spending time with my son in any shape or form on my next visit, you will be dragged outside from this place, and I will have you arrested. _Or_ …” Here, he paused, smirking in bemusement at the girl’s dawning look of horror and outrage upon her pallid features.

“ _Or_ , Your Honor?” she whispered, trepidation laced throughout her voice, and she did not bother to fight back down the crack in her fearful tone as it cracked and faltered, as did her resolve.

“Or…I could provide for you, mademoiselle,” breathed the Judge, relishing in the look of growing discomfort in the girl’s darkened eyes. “You could stay here. In the cathedral. With me. I could give you a comfortable life here in Paris. One where you would never want for anything else again. You are a Dupont, widowed or not, you are a noblewoman, Belle, who deserves the highest form of respect and in behalf of my adopted son who could never be that for you, nor would he be able to provide for you, truly, in the manner that you deserve, milady. I apologize. And…I am willing to compensate for the tragic loss of your father and husband. If you wish to keep your good-standing within Parisian society and your wealth, then say yes.”

A silence was nothing that he could have hoped for. He glanced at the young widow out of the corner of his eye as words left her. He swallowed hard and waited for the girl to process his declaration of his… _feelings_.

Belle blinked owlishly at Judge Frollo as her lips parted open, though no words came out. The power of speech had left her lips, and when she attempted to speak, all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. She stared skittishly into those bright gray eyes burning with anger, and her heart fell silent. The moment she realized she'd misinterpreted his actions, his words, his expressions for so many years... as if he'd been speaking a language that she couldn't understand... that moment her words stopped was the moment Belle’s heart broke.

“ _Answer me_.” The Judge commanded of her, and it escaped his lips as a guttural roar. But she couldn’t will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a shaky finger in her face. “Do you have nothing to say, Dupont? I have poured my heart out to you, and I offer you the chance of a lifetime, now tell me what your answer is!”

He was demanding of Belle and answer. But her mind felt as blank as unmarked parchment paper and her eyes wide as she stared at Quasimodo’s master in utter horror.

His eyes desperately searched hers…waiting. She just had to say something. Belle bit the wall of her cheek as she wracked her brain for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her. Judge Claude Frollo could assuredly sense the revolt she nursed against him for the way he mistreated Quasimodo, but if she wanted to prove to him that she was as smart as the rumors from the nuns claimed her to be, and the girl wasn’t stupid, then she had better embrace the offer, but to her—“I wish that you could listen to yourself, sire.”

Belle’s breath trembled and she emanated a tense exhale as they paused, just outside of Sister Alice’s chambers, though Belle had not yet lifted her knuckles to knock and announce their presence. “You propose to me but two weeks after my husband and father’s deaths. So much talk of respect, Your Honor.” She felt him exhale and his body tense in suspense.

He let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat. “I’ll be leaving you with more time. I have to leave Paris to return home, few days’ ride east of here, and you would do well to make up your mind within that time frame, child, or I should have you thrown out on the streets, where you will be reduced to a simple beggar, or worse, whoring to survive, Belle.”

Belle bristled and was unable to stop the fiery retort as it tumbled unchecked out of her mouth as she violently shirked away from the judge’s ironclad grip upon her wrist, clutching her hand close to herself and rubbing it gingerly. “You—you could defeat an army of fire breathing dragons and I would _never_ consent to this match!” she snarled. “Not in this life, or the next, Your Grace!”

The Judge offered a small life that sent a tremor of revolt down her spine. There was no warmth in that cold, calculating chuckle. “My bastard ward has a hold on you, doesn’t he? What on earth could you possibly see in a monster like my son, dear sweet child?” he asked.

Belle narrowed her eyes and backed away until her back was pressed against the door of Sister Alice’s quarters.

“I would rather have the ‘monster’ than the judge three times my age and a man who is old,” she growled, feeling herself tremble with angst, feeling as small as a child as she shivered with both anger and fear, clutching herself as she raised her knuckles and gingerly rapped on Sister Alice’s door, biting the wall of her cheek. “Don't make me do this, Your Grace, please, if there is a shred of decency in you, do not do this to me,” she begged, glancing around nervously, desperately hoping someone would come along and interrupt them, but at this early hour of the morning, such help was highly unlikely.

_Anyone, please come. Darius, Quasi, Alice, where are you? Please…_ She swallowed nervously and met the Judge's gaze.

“You're not developing _feelings_ for Quasimodo, are you?" he asked, delighted at this development. If it was true like he suspected it might be, then it would serve him well to teach his accursed wretch of a son a lesson in all of this, what it meant to succumb to sin and lustful urges, and finally, be free of the boy’s evil, wickedness forever, and it would all that much more satisfying. He recognized he was growing jealous. "Do forgive my prying, but I confess myself a little bit jealous if it's true," he crooned, admitting that fact out loud made him feel relieved. She belonged to him and nobody else.

_Especially_ not his son.

"No, Your Grace, I'm not," Belle argued. "You—"

" _Don't lie to me_ , girl," he muttered. "I see it in your eyes. You find my ward attractive, don't deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Well. No matter. You will be mine, Belle, or I shall have you arrested and burned at the stake for witchcraft and sorcery. See if I don’t’. You'll marry me in a fortnight, and you know that I will give you a great life. You'll never want for anything else in your life ever again. I can promise you will have a good life with me," he murmured quietly, his voice silky and seductive as he kissed her earlobe before working his way down to her collarbones, pulling away to stare at her flushed, angry expression and into her eyes.

The Judge, deciding she needed further incentive, pulled out his knife from its sheath and fingered it lovingly. The knife sat precariously against the skin of his palm, soft enough not to pierce his hand, hard enough to enforce his intended message. The harsh metal should have been cold and raw against his skin, but his numb body could not feel anything except for the excruciating pain of the Dupont woman’s betrayal and the humiliating rejection that stung like salt in the already tender wound of his heart. He could see it in her eyes; she was already beginning to develop feelings for Notre Dame's bell ringer.

He pressed the point of the blade against her throat. Belle’s throat held in a silver grasp, and all she could do was stare lifelessly at the listless, emotionless, gray eyes before her that held the blade and a terrifying coldness she had never seen in him before. Once, he had been happy, in the years his brother was still alive. But now, looking into his eyes, she could see no trace of the vibrancy and charm his eyes once held, no trace of the kind man he could have become had Claude made different choices in his life. Trembling, she tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting Claude to end her anguish, half hoping that he would.

A small stream of blood trickled from the feeble cut that she could not feel. He didn't flinch or remove his gaze from hers. Belle’s frozen heart shifted at the sight of his merciless gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her.

_Oh, God,_ she thought and suppressed a moan. His steadfast grip on the weapon shifted, causing more blood to flow from the raw wound he had inflicted on her. Smirking, Claude glanced down, and his gaze landed on the book she'd dropped. He picked it up and thumbed through a few of the pages, amused at her choice. " _Tristan and Iseult_ ," he muttered thoughtfully.

"An interesting choice, mademoiselle. The woman betrayed King Mark of Cornwall, who was dearest to him. Iseult, his own wife," he hissed through clenched teeth, relishing in the horrified stare she was giving him, like a cornered deer. "The king was heartbroken. His queen wounded him more deeply than anyone else in his life ever could have done."

Belle was rendered speechless, unable to speak. All she could do was gape in shock.

The Judge continued. “When the king found out what his queen had done, King Mark threatened to have her burned at the stake, and her lover, Tristan, hanged."

“I'm familiar with the story, Your Honor," she snapped, wrenching her arm away from him. "I know it well. It is one of my favorites.”

"Then you are familiar with the ending," he remarked drolly, swiveling his head lazily almost to regard the young brunette whose throat he currently held hostage.

"Yes," she said defiantly, jutting her chin out at him. "I am."

"Then, like Iseult, you know what happens if you betray me," he replied, grabbing her wrist again and pulling her close, entwining his fingers in her dark strands, loosely playing with them. "Are you frightened, child? Don't lie," he warned.

Belle stared at him, her chest slowly rising and falling.

"Yes," she admitted truthfully.

_Good. The smallest admission of fear. It'll do_. He smirked and cupped her chin in his hand, sneering at her dazed expression. "It is time that you accepted your fate, witch. Open your mouth," he ordered. She didn't. The Judge, without warning, kissed her, forcefully pressing his lips against hers and was surprised by her reaction. Belle stiffened, not returning his kiss, and shirked away from him, backing away against a pillar, terrified.

His body crushed hers and he pressed a hand against the back of her head, pressing in hard and urgent. He grabbed the back of her head tightly as his kiss became more demanding, hungrier. The Judge pressed lingering kisses against anything he could reach. Belle’s jaw that drove him wild, his breath curled against her skin as Claude’s hands skated against her sides, his fingers grabbing onto the back of her dress for support.

Belle cringed, hating herself and desperately wishing Darius would turn the corner, come to her aid as he had once before a few weeks ago, or even how Quasimodo, had two weeks ago, with that Prince in the library. She knew Frollo would leave marks she doesn't want, but she could not make a scene or who knew what he would do to her if she tried to escape. The feeling of his teeth against her neck felt like a dagger.

He pulled her close and slid his hand down the curve of her hip and Belle drew in a sharp breath as she felt his hands wander up her skirt. She felt the graze of his lips against her neck and she shuddered out of horror. Belle broke away, gasping for air, shooting him a look that would have turned him to stone if she'd had the ability.

"That was pleasant," he commented, not bothering to hide his twisted smirk that formed on his thin lips, that was more of a grimace than a smile. "For you, as well."

She backed away and stared up at his towering form, her eyes wide and round with fear. No one was coming to help her; she was alone with _him_. “I—I'm flattered, Your Grace, that you want to marry me, but I—I just know what to say,” she admitted nervously.

"Say that you will accept my proposal and marry me after all this is over," he hissed.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she apologized. "But I just don't deserve a man like you!" she exclaimed, doing her best not to let her eyes wander and betray her. She had to stall him long enough for someone— _anyone_ —to hear him and come.

Claude allowed a dark chuckle to escape his lips as he laughed, unable to help himself. "You foolish girl. I will have you for my wife because you, my dear, are the most beautiful girl in all of Paris. Surely you can see it for yourself, and if you can't, you're even blinder than I thought. I deserve only the best, and to me, you _are_ the best."

Belle felt a tremor of cold wash over her. Gaston had said something similar to her, once. “Your Grace…I…I don’t think…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him.

He snorted and smirked, burying his face in her hair. “What?”

Belle was staring at him with such intensity in her dark eyes that he didn't know what to make of it at first. She was losing control and growing angry, but he knew her better than she knew herself. She didn't dare grow angry in front of her, she knew better than that. Belle knew what happened to the people of Paris who displeased him or disobeyed him. She had heard the stories from the nuns, and from Quasimodo during her time spent in his tower. As she spoke, her voice shaking with rage and fear as she dared address him.

“If you love me, you'll sacrifice yourself. Walk right into the flames of Hell and never look back. If you love me, you'll do it. Walk into certain death and do it for me. Isn't that beautiful, Your Grace? Then I'll remember you as one who forever loved me, and you'll live on in my memory, immortalized. I will be quite safe. That is what you want, isn't it? You _do_ love me, don't you, Your Honor?” she asked.

"You're clever, child," he whispered, nipping at her ear. "There's no one coming for you," he continued. “It's just you and I. Alone. As it should be, my pet.”

But someone was coming. The sound of approaching footsteps filled the otherwise empty corridor. Claude cursed under his breath and whirled around, no longer mind that they were in a Holy House of God and His angels. When the person turned the corner, he could see the man was a priest. The priest was young, close to Captain Phoebus’s age, maybe a little younger by a few years.

“Father Darius,” he growled through gritted teeth, and when he turned back around to face the girl, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach as Sister Alice had wrenched open the door of her personal quarters and was regarding the seething look of hatred in the young brunette’s eyes as she shot the Judge a withering look that would have had the ability to turn Claude to stone had she possessed the power to do so. But she did not.

"Your Grace. Belle," spoke up Sister Alice in a tone wrought with concern and suspicion as she quirked a thin brow Belle's way. "What can I do for you both at this late hour?"

“I believe the child here is suffering from an ailment of the stomach," he explained airily, turning back towards Belle. "When Sister Alice is finished prescribing you something for your sickness, she will show you to your room.” His words escaped him as a snarl as he relinquished his grip upon Belle, ignored the nun’s stunned, horrified expression intermingled with that of revulsion and horror.

“Come, child,” murmured Sister Alice as she clutched onto the young brunette’s arm, all the while casting dark, withering looks down the hallway as the older woman stared after the Judge’s dark, retreating silhouette as he made to follow Father Darius, a truly wicked smirk etched upon still-handsome features.

Though he turned around, just once, to glance back over his shoulder, and Judge Claude Frollo’s face was the last thing Sister Alice and Belle focused on before the nun, a heavy scowl on Alice’s features, as she closed the door to her chambers and allowed the wooden door with a deadbolt lock to serve as a barrier of protecting, shrouding Belle Dupont in the only measure of comfort she could provide.

Claude paid the horrified looks of the women no mind as he strode towards the confessional booth, his gaze fixated upon the handsome Father Darius’s tall form.

What he was doing as a priest here for the last few years was beyond Claude’s understanding to comprehend the man’s choices in life. The man could have gone on to conquer entire _continents_ , and yet, here he was, a priest. His motives confused the Judge, even after all these years, but he would learn the truth from the priest very soon. Right now, as a matter of fact. Claude grinned.

“Excellent,” he whispered. He'd been looking forward to this. Belle had used the distraction to flee and take her leave of him, but he didn't care. He knew he would be seeing her again very soon, whether she knew this or not. He would be sure of it. The Judge grinned and straightened the rosary around his neck as he walked to the confessional and waited for the young priest to join him. He didn't care if he had to wait all morning. The stakes of his little game of cat and mouse were working out better than he had anticipated.

The girl wanted to play her little games, then she would find herself a new opponent.

Him. And he always won. He knew how to play Belle Dupont’s game. And how to win.


	27. A Taunting Confession

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

Darius had seen a lot in his years as a priest at Notre Dame, but he had never quite met a woman like Belle. She was unique in every way possible. The closest he had come was his Hanna, so many years ago. It was remarkable, really, how much they looked alike.

Her first-night claiming sanctuary within the church's walls when he'd watched her play her lyre, Darius thought he was seeing Hanna come home to him.

It had taken all of his restraint not to fall at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. The young woman was an incredibly hard worker. Darius had protested, insisting she was a guest and they could not possibly put her to work, but she'd insisted. Belle was, as she put it, not comfortable taking refuge in a House of God and not doing her part to help maintain it.

The morning after she'd arrived, Alice and Jeanne had entered the kitchens to find the brunette on her knees, giving the floors a much needed thorough scrubbing. The nuns hadn't known what to make of her at first. The Dupont woman was incredibly curious and a true delight to be around, with a vivid imagination and almost a childlike curiosity. It became clear to Darius and the sisters that the poor woman had a sheltered upbringing. Alice and Jeanne had taken an instant liking to the girl and had liked her immediately, which was rare for them. The two were a few of the toughest women in Paris.

They didn't put up with any horsing around and could see right through a lie and were quick to call people out on it.

Their sometimes colorful language filled the church's hallways, their personalities a delight to be around, despite their crude vocabulary and lewd suggestions when it came to men. Darius could only hope they'd spare Belle from the worst of their language. He could only pray for it. Whether or not they would, he didn't think so. The girl had been with them only a few days, and already, she'd formed a tight bond with the nuns, and with Darius.

Darius smiled to himself, the evening's scriptures in his hands as he made his morning rounds. He had some time before Lauds at dawn, so he decided to head for the kitchens to check with Alice, see how the Dupont girl was settling in and if there was anything that she needed to make her stay with them more comfortable. The priest had gone out of his way to ensure she had all the comforts Notre Dame could offer her while she stayed with them.

He wondered if Alice and Jeanne had corrupted her yet and what Belle would say about the pair of them. It was no secret that most within the cathedral walls thought the pair of sisters would be better off becoming madams in a brothel or bordello, but, for reasons that were a mystery, even to Darius, they had remained with the cathedral, content to do the Lord's work.

The priest grinned as he approached the kitchens, the sounds of the two sisters conversing loudly made him laugh.

Standing in the doorway, he silently watched the trio of women as they labored over making the church's bread for the week.

The scent of the bread as it baked filled his nostrils. The sisters were effortlessly pounding and proofing the dough. But Belle was delicately kneading and shaping the dough with a roller with careful, delicate hands, every move she made precise and elegant.

She concentrated as though she was crafting a work of art, a true masterpiece, and he could tell that she was. Belle either didn't notice or didn't care that she had a spot of flour on her cheek, or that a stray strand of brunette hair had escaped from underneath her brown headscarf. She looked tired and distracted, the circles underneath her eyes prominent and dark, as though she hadn't slept well. Darius frowned as he looked at her.

Turning his attention to the sisters, he caught Alice's eye and winked playfully. Alice and Jeanne were both in their early fifties and still quite beautiful. Despite his and the Archdeacon's protests, they staunchly refused to wear their coifs and habits, instead opting for plain brown habits that brought attention to their slender curves, causing more than a few interested glances from the male parishioners who were close to their age during the evening Mass and Vespers sessions.

Darius had long since given up on trying to get the two cousins to change their ways. Both women were tall and slender, with thin oval faces and high cheekbones, delicately shaped brows. Jeanne's hair was silver, long, thick, and luscious. Her hair fell past her breasts in natural waves and emphasized her thin face and mischievous green eyes. Jeanne had a strange glow about her this morning, making her look years younger.

Darius suppressed a snort as he watched her. If he had to guess, the sister had gone off the property with some man prior to starting her day's chores. He wouldn't put it past the woman to do something like that.

Alice was shorter than Jeanne, but only by a few inches. Her silver hair was wavy and fell to her shoulders in soft layers, showing off her kind blue eyes. Her face was pale and her cheekbones and neck elegant, like her. She was less ornery than Jeanne, but not by much. Despite their ways, Darius loved the pair of them. He loved their ability to make him laugh, no matter what. The two reminded him of his mother before she'd fled.

Father Darius de Barret watched as the young brunette politely excused herself, a strange, pallid look upon her features, the circles underneath her eyes darkening. The priest frowned and looked towards Alice, who offered a curt shake of her head and silently mouthed, _"Later. Over wine. I promise."_

He gave a curt nod of his head, signaling he understood and swiftly exited out of the kitchens towards the confessional. He could have sworn he'd saw a shadow enter the other side of the confessional booth but a moment ago.

Father Darius smiled to himself as he watched the young brunette lift her skirts just a bit to better climb the stairwell towards the north bell tower loft.

Darius knew the girl would go up to the tower. He'd seen it in her eyes before she'd even made up her mind. Upon entering the confessional and taking a seat, he found in his habit pockets his favorite chess piece, the white knight.

Turning it over in his hands a few times as he examined the chipped piece, he mused that life was in some ways, like a game of chess, a game of strategy, of risks and chances.

T _hese two, my brother and Belle are about to have their own game if she goes up there and he apologizes like he ought to. Will they both come out victorious? Who's going to make the first move? God knows he won't. It's up to her. God only knows our bell ringer deserves a good life. Maybe this girl is the one for him. Only time will tell._

Darius frowned and sighed. It had been a trying life for the lonesome bell ringer.

The priest had hoped with Claude Frollo's death, of which he and Archdeacon Luc had pardoned him of any wrongdoing, that he would emerge from his shell and venture out into the world, but the exact opposite had happened. The man built a wall around his heart, refusing to let anyone in and get close to him. The priest smiled as his mind filled with visions of their new refuge, of Belle, his blue eyes twinkling with hope.

Perhaps it was a good thing this girl was here with them. She could talk to him and encourage him, perhaps.

God knew the boy deserved his own happiness. He'd suffered enough. Darius considered their bell ringer a younger brother when he'd had no other siblings or family in his life, and it pained him to see Quasi so full of self-hatred and loathing when he'd done nothing wrong. Frollo would have burned down the entire city of Paris and destroyed Notre Dame if it hadn't been for the King's intervention.

Darius could never admit it to anyone, but he was one of the few who firmly believed that sometimes there was no other alternative than to take a life if it meant saving the lives of thousands, even millions. He'd done it before, several times. He was something of an expert on the subject.

"Father Darius!" a man's voice on the other side of the confessional shouted, a little too loudly, jolting the priest out of his musings and back to the reality of the confessional. Darius jumped and fumbled his white knight chess, which clattered to the floor with a loud clang, louder than he would have liked. _Damn_.

He'd almost forgotten there was someone on the other side. "I'm sorry," he apologized, grateful whoever was on the other side could not see his embarrassment. "I apologize for my late arrival; I was preoccupied with another matter."

"I wish to make a confession, and it has been three weeks since my last," the man's voice said, quiet and slightly grating. It was a voice he did not recognize. The voice on the other side of the confessional was new.

Intrigued, his intuition told him something was wrong. "What is your sin, my son?"

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I wish to make a confession. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

"What is your sin?" he repeated, growing agitated. He didn't like the sound of this man's voice; he didn't trust it. Darius knew it was wrong to judge prematurely, but he couldn't help it. Whoever this man was, he could tell he was growing irate and recognized the hardened edges around his voice. The man's voice was smooth, silky, seductive, even.

"I have…" the stranger's voice hesitated as if he was unsure of how to phrase his confession. "I have lusted after a beautiful woman to whom I am not married. I—I want her, Father. I _must_ have her. I cannot control my urges when I'm around her, the things she does to me, and it's unforgivable. I will make her mine and kill anyone who stands in my way, Father Darius. I—I can't help it."

Darius froze. The one thing he never tolerated well as abuse against a woman. "Who is this woman of whom you speak?" he demanded, swallowing hard to control his temper. The priest had a sinking feeling he knew, but he had to be sure.

"I believe she is here," the man replied, almost in a hiss like a serpent. "My sources in the streets told me they saw her enter this cathedral but just a few weeks ago. Where is she, Father?" he growled darkly. "I must see her. I need to speak to her. Her name is Belle; she's a brunette, recently widowed if the rumors are true, and a tiny little thing. Perhaps you've met her?"

 _Lord, grant me strength_. Darius clutched the knight chess piece in his hand tightly. "She has claimed sanctuary here. You cannot touch her on Holy Ground, and you would incredibly foolish to try," he snarled through clenched teeth, his entire body shaking as he fought back the worst of his temper. "Leave right now."

The man laughed. There was a low growl to the man's tone that Darius didn't like. "Oh, but I can, for you see, I am a patient man, Father," he whispered menacingly. It became clear to Darius that this was not a confession at all, but a taunt. The man was taunting Darius. " _Do_ be careful, Father Darius," he warned.

"You can't—" he started to say but was cut off.

"I'd _hate_ for something to happen to her, or to her new…friend, the bell ringer," the voice spat, disgusted. " _She will be mine_ , Father. I'll take her, no matter what I have to do. I'll kill anyone that stands in my way, including you. Try and stop me, or tell anyone we had this conversation, and you'll very much regret it."

"Why are you doing this?" Darius asked, fuming.

"Father, you were once the greatest warrior mankind had ever seen. You could have gone on to conquer entire continents, maybe even the world, and yet, here you sit, a priest," he spat, disgusted. "What are you doing with your life? Your talents are being wasted! You don't belong here. You could easily reach across this screen and kill me, yet I know you won't. You're _weak_! You don't have it in you to do what needs to be done. I will take Belle for my wife and kill anyone who gets in my way. You can't stop me, and you can't tell a single soul of our conversation, Father. You're bound by the rules of confession, remember," he sneered.

Darius decided right then and there that whoever this man was, he hated him. "If you even think about coming near her—"

"You can't do anything to stop me, Darius. If you do," he smirked, "Well, I'd _hate_ to think what would happen to the poor girl or to _you_ if you tell anyone," he replied coldly, his shadow covering Darius in darkness as he rose to leave. "Until next time. _Father_ ," he taunted.

Darius remained in the confessional, shaken, and at a loss. The bastard was right. _By God, he's right_. Belle was in serious trouble.

This man was threatening her life and had taunted Darius at being unable to do anything about it.

And he could tell no one.

* * *

An hour later follow his little game with the priest, Claude Frollo cautiously surveyed the still pretty nun over the rim of his goblet of wine in his study, where Sister Alice sat perched in the chair opposite him on the other side of his desk.

"You are quite certain of this, Sister? How can you be so sure?"

Oh, he was a bloody, blind and deaf fool to ask this question of the well-known nun when he himself felt as though he already knew the answer as to how it had happened, by the gods and seven hells below, he was going to kill his misshapen ward if this was true.

But now, with a welling sense of dread in his chest, he felt a wash of cold engulf his entire body as his mind struggled to process Alice Beaumont's words.

Claude felt the need for the nun's error on this matter, though she, being a woman and knowing of the signs, knew better than most, and Alice, timid and ever observant, coughed once to clear her throat and almost choked on her red wine.

"Belle, Your Honor, she came to me. You were there, do you not remember?" she added sardonically, quirking a thin graying brow the judge's way, who airily waved a hand in protest, as if to silently communicate, _Yes, yes, get on with it_.

"Yes, I was, but I was not there for the...initial examination," Claude growled. "You are the expert, Alice. What is ailing the girl?"

"At first," Alice began hesitantly, glancing down at her hands and twisting them painfully together, fiddling with her rosary, and shrinking into the brown monk's habit she'd stolen from Darius for warmth as much as possible, "I thought it to be a mere complaint of the stomach, but then she was asking me of strange bleeding she had been having over the last couple of days. I am…quite positive that this is what we believe it to be, Your Honor."

Judge Frollo pursed his lips into a thin rigid line and folded his arms across his chest. He felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. For how long, Sister?" he growled, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth in anger.

He did not even realize his hand was shaking until his goblet trembled and a bit of wine splashed onto the surface of his mahogany desk. His scowl deepened, creating a groove near his mouth and lines on his otherwise smooth forehead as he dabbed at the spilled liquid with his handkerchief.

"Four days, Judge." The nun cast her gaze downward and began absent preening of nails that were already quite short, cut down to the quick, almost.

"But could it have not been her…her moon's blood?" the Judge asked desperately, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks, grinding his teeth even harder in anguish. "Need I remind that should a single word of this conversation extend beyond these doors, Sister Alice, and I learn about it, you'll lose that tongue of yours that must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends, woman," he growled threateningly, lowering his voice an octave on purpose, pleased to see that his threat had the desired effect as he watched the nun's face pale as she gathered her gray hair into a loose bun and resumed picking at her nails to avoid looking him in the eyes.

"It won't," she answered simply, a hardened edge to her voice. "And for the record, Your Honor, I too asked of her that very question." Alice licked her lips to moisten them and swallowed, shrinking back against the rest of her chair as much as she could go as she watched with skittish eyes as the Judge leaned forward, almost conspiratorially in his own chair and regarded the nun with narrowed, beady eyes.

"And?" he growled, unable to keep the desperation out of his tone. He winced and sat back in his chair, keeping his fingers interlaced and woven together, fidgeting with one of his ruby rings he wore proudly on his right hand. "What did she say?"

"She believed and said to me that it was much too early for that, according to her count, Your Honor. I think you and I both know the answer. She is not lying to me."

_Seven hells. I'll—I'll kill it. And I'll kill the boy. I'll do it. Kill them all…_

Fuming, Claude felt himself emanate a tense exhale and sighed, wearily rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger, propping his elbows up on the desk. The Judge clenched his teeth and ground them in anger as fires of fury swept through his bloodstream, igniting a rage so hot at the thought of the accursed little wretch upstairs in his precious bell towers blatantly ignoring his orders to stay away from the Dupont widow and now… _this_.

By the gods, he was going to _murder_ him.

It could not be so. There has to be some kind of mistake. The Judge blinked once to clear his throat and forced his attentions to return to Sister Alice, who was eyeing him quizzically in her chair, looking as though she were wishing nothing more than for the floor to open up beneath her chair and swallow her completely.

"Have you asked of Belle an illness? Perhaps it was something she ate or drank."

Sister Alice Beaumont made an odd little strangled noise at the back of her throat and had she not lowered her goblet of wine onto his desk at that moment, she would have undoubtedly spilled her drink all over her set of robes. "Yes, Your Grace."

For a moment, the briefest flickers of annoyance darted through Sister Alice's eyes, as though she was looking offended that the Judge would dare to question or doubt her years of experience. "She says there was naught but a light cramping on her stomach and then the bleeding, for four days, Belle told me."

Claude took in a sharp inhale of frigid air, balling his hands into claws and feeling his nails dig into the skin of his palm as he clenched and unclenched them, quite sure if he could not find a way to control his ire that he would strike out at her.

"This ah…this bleeding, you say, Sister, it happens how many days after…?" The Judge's blush deepened and he waved his arms about in circles, his black sleeves of his robes flailing with his movements as he struggled to formulate his thoughts, thinking it impossible how it was that he could have been struck dumb by the nun's revelation as to the girl's sickness of the stomach, though the thought of his wretched ward and the Dupont widow laying together was enough to inspire thoughts of rage and lust and an insatiable desire for bloodlust, to rid himself of Quasimodo's wickedness. He should have known.

A boy, already grown in body and mind, possessing the urges of every other simple-minded fool in Paris, the temptation of the Dupont woman's spell over him had simply been too great, and now… _this_. _This_.

Sister Alice's frown deepened, and a light ignited in her cobalt eyes as the nun was quick to comprehend the Judge's question. "A turn of the moon, Your Honor, or a fortnight, though…there is every possibility that your… _suspicions_ are _wrong_. It could very well be that this is her husband's, not… _his_ ," she whispered, voice faint.

Judge Claude Frollo stifled a groan and rested his head in his hands. "Of course, Sister. I should not have doubted you. It will not happen again."

This time, he really _did_ let out a moan of exasperation laced with anger and sheer disbelief at this troubling news. Out of all the problems that he was dealing with, this was by far, the most troublesome

Belle's case could not have fallen upon _worse_ timing. The Judge clucked his tongue in disappointment and heaved a heavy sigh, hating that it had come to this.

"What have you said to her, Alice?" The Judge inquired of Sister Alice again.

"Nothing, Your Grace." Alice Beaumont dipped her head in acknowledgment, clasping her hands together. "I have only told the poor child to come back should the bleeding and her unfortunate sicknesses persist. She does not seem to be tolerating meat, much less most foods these days, if what she was telling me is true. It could be what we thought should be, or it could also be that the dear sweet thing is suffering from a different complaint of the stomach."

Claude sighed. "Have it that way. When she comes back to you, you do not dare breathe a single word. She does not need to know of this news, Alice. You hear me?"

Sister Alice blinked, feeling quite certain she had misheard.

"Sir? But…the girl, she…she needs more care, Your Honor. The first few months are the most crucial, you and I know this! You would truly see your own son's child perish?" she shouted, balling her hand into a first and bringing it down hard enough that the tin flagon of wine and a side cup of tea laced with honey to ease Belle's sickness tilted and spilled, causing both Claude and Alice to leap back to avoid the garish, sticky liquid from splattering onto their boots or their pristine clothing.

"I know what I said, Sister." Claude glared, even he could not hide the guilt that marred his pristine glistening gray eyes. "I do not think I need to repeat myself, Sister, do I not? You will breathe not a word of this to the girl, nor to my ward, lest you value keeping your tongue."

Sister Alice pursed her lips, and finally, reluctantly nodded, keeping her hands clasped in front of her on her lap,

"I will take my leave of you now." The Judge finally said, hearing the sigh of relief from the nun as the long brown habit she'd stolen from Darius made soft scratches the way she wobbled off the table behind which he had perched himself on top.

Alice watched with furrowed graying brows and a heavy scowl on her face, emanating a tense exhale through her nostrils and cocked her head to the side, gingerly closing the door of the chambers behind her and resting her back against the door's frame as Alice stared blankly after the spot where only moments before, the poor dear child had stood, practically in tears and distressed, wanting to know why she could keep nothing down and why she felt so queasy and sick in the mornings.

A look of exasperation in her eyes and on her face was paramount as her blue eyes widened with shock and surprise as she felt her hand reach for the tin flagon of wine, pouring what was left into a small chalice and raising the cup to her lips, throwing her head back and draining the goblet in one swift motion.

Sister Alice slammed the cup down on the small wooden side table and folded her arms across her chest and let out a heavy sigh, glancing over her shoulder.

"Well," Sister Alice said to no one in particular after a long silence, "That went even worse than I expected."


	28. Marry Me

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

There was so much more to survival than the persistence of the flesh. Long after Belle's tears had dried and her abrasions and bruises had healed from the night Gaston had brutally murdered her Papa, her sense of self still felt like it remained in tatters, never quite to be made whole ever again. She felt like a distortion of what she once was, unable to find her way back. Each day was a thing in itself, she did not dwell in the past, but nor did she look to the future.

Quasimodo wanted his friend back. She knew that he wanted the same girl that had bravely kissed him by the River Seine that night, the girl who brought him sunshine in an otherwise dark and desolate world up here in his isolated bell towers. But how on earth could she tell the man that those rays just were not there anymore? That she herself felt as if she were barely here?

The healing maester prescribed essence of nightshade to help her sleep at night, and tonics to slip into her tea most mornings to help ease her sickness.

Sister Alice listened to her thoughts on this matter and seemed to have all the right words. But she simply had to accept that she would be a different person from here on in, that nothing, no matter how much she would wish for it to be so, would ever be the same again, for her life had irrevocably changed the moment that Alice Beaumont had cornered Belle in the library this morning and had gone against orders by Judge Frollo not to breathe a word.

She had almost— _almost_ —considered telling the nun what had transpired between the two of them in the hallway, how the cruel man had forced himself upon her, but she decided for now, given what she was still struggling to process, let it go. Belle had to accept that she would be different.

How this new person would be more cautious, less trusting of strangers, more fearful. But still, she clung to what little shreds of sanity she had left, to her Bible, to God, and her relationship with the church's bell ringer. She knew that in his own way, albeit however shy he might be, Quasi cared for her, and she for him, and now that Gaston was well and truly dead…

Belle bit the wall of her cheek and ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth as she pondered over what to do regarding her feelings for the man.

He could show her the way back to love if he would allow her in. Perhaps even one day, if she ever fully healed from this, she could find a way to help other women, other survivors like she was, and be a voice for the broken, but…not yet. Belle felt like her mind was reeling as her mind struggled to process Alice's words the following morning following a private meeting with the nun up in his tower. This could not be true; it could not be so. She was…she was _pregnant_.

Like it or not, Belle was going to be a _mother_ in about nine months.

To a child that was the product of rape. And yet, waging war within the confines of her conflicted mind, she did not think that she could bear herself to get rid of it, for it was innocent. It had done nothing. These conflicting thoughts were not helping her already agitated state of mind as she waged war with herself on what to do about her little problem. She painfully twisted her hands together and felt her nails dug into the skin of her palms as she stifled her soft smile as she heard the barely audible thump of the bell ringer's boots as he landed gracefully from one of the rafters high above.

Belle didn't know exactly how he spent his time up there, nor did she care to know the details. Everyone was entitled to their privacy and secrets. God only knew she had kept her fair share of them. She looked around and forced a smile on her face, though she quickly let it fall when she met the bell ringer's gaze, and she knew the man was not fooled by her attempt to placate him and make him believe that she was fine when she most assuredly was _not_ at all fine.

What was she going to _do_? Her mind felt like it was reeling, and she was at a complete loss. "Have you eaten anything this morning, Belle?"

His first words to her, and there was no mistaking the concern laced throughout his soft, tenor-like tones, and it was these caring undertones that convinced Belle to tell Quasimodo the truth. Just the thought of food right now was enough to make her stomach lurch.

She bit the wall of her cheek and numbly shook her head. "Not yet."

"Here." Belle's mouth twitched upward in a slight smile as he darted back inside his tower loft and handed her an apple, holding it out to her somewhat hesitantly, though as the bell ringer saw her smile, he relaxed a little.

In truth, she wasn't hungry at all. In fact, she felt quite nauseous, so she proceeded to roll the apple in her hands, shifting the fruit from one hand to the other. "There's…A—Alice says that the reasoning behind my…sickness, why I can't seem to keep much down these days," she began hesitantly, biting the wall of her cheek in a fit of nervous anticipation, not wanting to reveal her news, but knew at this point that she had no choice.

_I have to tell him right now._

Belle exhaled slowly through her nose and huffed in frustration and nervous anticipation. "I—is because…he…we…I'm going to have a baby. I—it's…it's Gaston's, it's his, a—and I—I don't know what to do about it, Quasimodo," she hissed and immediately turned her head away so she would not have to look at him.

There. She said it. The words escaped unchecked from her lips in a hushed tone, barely audible, spat more than spoken and whispered like she had been harboring a deep, dirty secret, which, Belle supposed that, in a way, she was. Belle clenched her eyes shut and bit the wall of her cheek, not wanting to look at him, for what he must think of her. At this rate, she did not want to know what he thought of her, for what would he _say_ to her?

She had not exactly been forthcoming with Quasi in her admission that she had been married, and initially, he had been upset, though following her father's gruesome murder, they had not really a decent opportunity to discuss this, though she supposed, given her circumstances, there was no time like the present.

Though the unspoken words seemed to hang in the air around the two of them like a deathly poison, suffocating her and wrapping its chilled hands around the pale column of her throat.

"Are you all right?" It was all he asked, and when she still refused to meet the bell ringer's gaze, she flinched and let out a muffled whine as she felt his strong gloved hand come up underneath her chin to cup it and tilt it slightly upwards so she was forced to meet his gaze. His tone did not sound accusatory, nor hurt, or betrayed.

But rather, it was laced with concern and a certain tenderness, that, given everything that happened to her over just the last month alone, Quasi's unwavering loyalty and kindness felt like a stab straight to her heart, the pointed tip of the weapon digging deeper into that corded mass of muscle.

Belle felt her lips part open slightly to speak, though no words came to her, much less a coherent thought as her mind still felt like it was reeling.

She felt his grip upon her chin tighten, and when she still did not answer him, Belle could feel him sigh, and it took him a moment to find his voice.

When he spoke to her, his tone sounded tired, as though he really did not want to ask this next question that burned on the tip of his tongue, yet Belle could tell that it felt imperative that he do so, considering this news she had just revealed was a bit of a shock, and his tone was just as surprised as hers.

"Belle, I need you to open your eyes a—and look at me. _Look at me_." Though his tone was gentle, the bell ringer was practically begging her now, and Belle's eyes flung open, just for a fraction of a second, and the anguish and heartbreak in his cobalt eyes were almost too much for her to bear.

She did not think that she could take it, to see the hurt that dwelled within. "I—I _can't_!" she wailed, clenching her eyes shut and turning away.

The last word escaped her lips as a half-choked sob, and by now, hot tears were welling and stinging in the corners of her vision, threatening to pour over. It felt like _all_ she did these last two weeks was cry, and she came to wonder how it was that she had any left within her to give, though she seemed to keep finding new ways. Belle wondered if she would ever smile again.

" _Yes_ , you can, Belle. Look at me." The command came again, and his soft, tenor-like, musical tones were laced with a tinge of melancholia and remorse, though for what he was feeling sorry for, Belle did not know at all.

He had nothing— _nothing_ —to apologize for. _She_ was the one who should and needed to apologize to him, though she was having trouble at the moment finding the right choice of words, for what could she even say to him?

"How could I, Quasi, a—after everything that I have done to you? You have done so much for me and asked for so little in return. By rights, you should _hate_ me, my friend, a—and I would deserve it, f—for I was not honest with you about my—my being married, a—and now this," she whispered, painfully wringing her hands together and digging her sharp nails into the skin of her palms.

Belle heard him emanate a tense, frustrated exhale through his nose as he came to stand in front of her, though he made no move to turn away, at least at first, he didn't, and she let out a muffled squeak as he hopped up onto the balcony's railing and straddled it, both his gloved hands resting on the rail.

Before she could even fathom what was happening, she shot forward and reached out an arm and clutched tightly onto his right forearm. "Don't fall!" she pleaded, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout and biting down hard. "What...what are you thinking? Get _down_ from there!" she shouted, socking him on the arm.

The gentle smile with the slight teasing sheen in his brilliant azure orbs was enough to ease some of the tension in her shoulders and then it widened.

"I—I'm sorry, Belle," he began, sounding apologetic, though Belle furrowed her brows in a slight frown as the bell ringer did not sound at all apologetic in the slightest. "But it was the only way I could get you to look at me," he explained, raking his gloved hands through his thick tuft of ginger hair as the autumnal wind rustled it gently, pushing his bangs back away from his face, the wind kissing his cheeks and pinking them.

She was grateful at least, that he wore long-sleeved linen undershirts underneath his thick green woolen tunic, that he would stay warm up here. She shivered, clutching her middle, though the cold that washed over her was not from the autumnal chill.

Belle blinked owlishly at the redhaired young bell ringer, amazed at the man's nimbleness and agility. She glanced down as she poked her head over the railing and immediately wished that she had not. "Oh, _God_ ," she moaned, and her stomach lurched, and for a second, she thought she might vomit. She took a faltering step backward, one hand clutching at her heart. "Ngh—don't—don't _ever_ look down again, Belle. You—you never fear to fall, Quasi?"

Quasi must have noticed her discomfort, for the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a light smirk, ignoring the bitter Paris breeze as it wafted through his hair. "No. You don't have to worry about me, my friend. I've been climbing for years, it's the closest thing I can come to _this_ ," he added, gesturing towards the City of Paris with his right arm. "You don't like heights, do you, Belle? And yet…you visit me up here, at the top of the world, almost every day. _Why_?" he asked, and there was not mistaking the desperation in his voice. "I—I have to know. There…you…you are so beautiful, Belle, a—and I am an 'almost made', a 'monster," he growled, as the bitterness crept into his succulent tone, and Belle hated to hear her friend speak of himself in such loathing. "What could someone like you ever possibly see in someone like me?" he asked, furrowing his brows into a frown as Belle gingerly crept closer.

She did not avert her gaze. Her gaze was unwavering and unabashed as she closed off the gap of space and came to stand behind him on the railing, and she felt him stiffen as both of her hands came to rest on his upper thighs.

Her fingers raked down the material of his woolen green tunic, gripping onto the fabric almost painfully tight for support. "Because…I care about you," she confessed, no longer surprised to hear herself confess it now that her husband was permanently out of her life and no longer an obstacle for her. "I like you, Quasi. I like you a lot, and I never want to hurt you, or for you to be harmed. I think that I…" Belle's voice trailed off, as she reached up a hand to caress his cheek.

She let out a content sigh as one of his gloved hands came up to catch it and held it there in his firm strong grip. "I think that I love you," she whispered, biting her bottom lip and she sighed, reaching up a hand and carding back that one stubborn lock of coarse fiery hair that had an unfailing tendency to fall and hang limp into his one good eye, acting as a shield from his line of sight and that which he did not wish to see, though his gaze had never once left Belle as she had approached him to close off the gap of space between them.

Belle heard him let out a content chill as a tremor…something, traveled down his spine, though whether it was because he found that her running her hands through his thick tuft of red hair was eliciting a pleasurable reaction from him or whether it was in response to the bitter, chilly breeze that traveled through the streets of Paris this morning on the first of October, she didn't know.

"But you shouldn't, Belle," he answered painfully, one of his hands moving off the railing and coming to grip onto hers, curling his gloved fingers into a fist over her own. "You should not want to be anywhere _near_ me, I…"

But his voice trailed off and he did not complete his sentence. He looked away for a moment, though Belle did not give him a chance. This time, it was she who brought her hand up underneath his chin and swiveled his head back around, forcing the lonesome bell ringer to meet the inventor's daughter's hard, piercing gaze, and she was almost giving him quite literally a stony look.

Quasi furrowed his brows into a frown and his free hand not currently wrapped around her waist to prevent her from slipping came up to find purchase in the back of her hair, taking a strand of rich dark chocolate in his fingers and toying with it. He let out a sigh as his gaze drifted to her stomach.

Belle would not start showing for several more weeks, according to Alice, as she quickly followed his gaze and noticed where she was looking. "I…I want to be there for you, Belle," he began hesitantly, biting down on his lip. "I know that I am not much," he sighed, resting his chin on top of her hair, "but I…I care for you, with all that I am. _What_ I am," he clarified quickly.

The heat rose to his cheeks, and he promptly tried to look away as a light pink blush crept along his face that had nothing to do with the bitter cold.

Though he did not attempt to pull away or divert his gaze, for which Belle was grateful. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and continued, clutching onto her hand and uncurled her fist, spreading her fingers. He noticed Belle's confusion and furrowed eyebrows, though he made no comment as he wordlessly dug into his pocket and procured a gold ring.

She inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she shifted the little yellow gold ring in her hand, feeling its weight. She recognized this ring.

"I—I found it," he explained sheepishly, still toying with a lock of her dark hair as he carefully brushed it back away from her shoulder. "Then—the night that you took it off and threw it away, I went back for it later that night, thinking that…w—well, I—if you wanted to, I—if you would like to, that I could…that _we_ could…that I could court you, Belle, I—if you'd have me…I—I want to be there for you, Belle. I don't care if this child is not mine. I would love it no less. I—if you want me in your life, then I will raise it as my own. I promise. You are not alone. You—you have me if you…want. I'll stay with you. And I want you to stay. I hope you know that I would never harm you or lay a finger on you or—the baby," he whispered, his eyes darkening as he no doubt was thinking of her husband. "I am _not_ like your husband, Belle. I…love you, with all that I am, though I know I'm not enough. I just…I just want you to be happy, and why…why could you want me, Belle?" He bit his lip and cringed, hating the sheer awkwardness of it all.

Belle shifted slightly at the edge of the railing, but too slowly to be normal. She lifted her chin and when she spoke, her voice trailed rather slowly.

Like her words were unwilling to take flight. There was a sadness in her eyes, the brown almost too glossy as they brimmed and glistened with unshed moisture, as a fresh onset of tears welled in her eyes.

"How could I not want you? You have done what no one else in France could. You have accepted me for who I am, faults and stubbornness and all,' she chuckled, wiping away a stray tear with a flick of her finger as it trailed down her cheek. "Not for who you or anybody else wanted me to be. So many times, with Gaston, I could…never really be myself around that fiend. But you. Not once you have told me that I am not good enough for you, or pretty enough for you. And you are so much more than you think, Quasi! Do you truly hold such a low opinion of yourself, Quasi? Do not speak of this," she pleaded, biting her bottom lip. "You are so much more than most men I know. Gaston, my father, included. You are _kind_ , you're a _good_ man. Just the fact that what you are discussing of doing-that you—you would _do_ that? For me? After all that I've done?" she asked, biting her bottom lip, hating hearing the crack and dip in her voice as she struggled to fight back the salty liquid that threatened escape. "Even with…" Here, she glanced towards her still very abdomen and flinched, suddenly not wanting to meet his gaze.

Though Quasimodo was _not_ having it, and she felt his gloved hand come up once more and gripped her chin as he for a second time forced the young brunette to meet his piercing and slightly hardened gaze. " _Yes_. I want...you, Belle. Marry me." His voice was firm, as was his resolute, and Belle could tell the man had made up his mind.

Belle parted her lips to speak, though only one word came out. "Okay."

It was all she could say, and she stifled her small half-smile as Quasi gingerly grabbed her left hand in his and without a word slipped the ring onto her finger that had used to belong to her when she'd been married to Gaston, and though she knew that there was no escaping the memories attached to the simple ring, that she now had a chance to make better memories, with a man who genuinely cared for her and seemed to truly love her unconditionally.

The two of them stared at each other in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument. Their glances battled one another until tears arose, and both found themselves silently crying. "Why did you do it?" Belle whispered hoarsely, tears rolling down with the same quietness. Quasi sighed, wiping his own tears with the back of his sleeve, his other hand still curled into a tight fist and came to wrap around her waist as he pulled her close for support, seeming to need the comfort just as much as Belle did. She felt an urge to do something, to comfort him, but also herself.

Without even waiting for the church's bell ringer to respond, she pressed her lips against his, felt his body stiffen involuntarily at the unexpected intimacy of the sudden gesture, though she quickly felt him loosen as he allowed himself to relax and felt his strong arms touch her shoulders.

Despite this was only the second time that she had kissed him, she knew she had to go slow, for his sake. She did not want to scare him away by moving too fast or forcing him to do something that he was not comfortable with, but she couldn't help but want more of his embrace.

For someone so inexperienced when it came to matters like this, he learned quickly, and Belle felt her mouth stretch into a wide grin that she tried to fight back as one of his gloved hands came up to find purchase in the back of her hair.

He kissed her and the world fell away. It was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled. She ran her fingers down his spine, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them and she could feel the beating of his heart against her chest.

His strong fingers gently ran up and down her spine, coaxing shivers out of Belle. With her cheeks still blushing hotly, she glanced back up into his captivating cobalt orbs, where dozens of emotions were flickering through them. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. Belle watched breathlessly as his eyes studied hers with silent intensity. His warm breath ghosted across her face.

The inventor's daughter shut her eyes in anticipation. She stifled a surprised gasp as his soft lips captured hers, causing her body to flush with heat. The heat seemed to travel through her veins, warming her.

Just as she felt a rush of bliss envelop her, making her heart sing with pure joy, Quasi drew away. She instantly missed the lovely heat curling within her.

His hands were wrapped around Belle's waist and hers locked around his neck pulling him down slightly. When the two of them finally broke apart for air, Belle rested her forehead against his and gathered some much-needed oxygen, willing it to return to their lungs, though she wanted nothing more to do it again, to kiss him and never let him go, if she could have it her way. She wished that she could bottle his warmth that he gave off, this incredible fiery heat, in a tiny glass vial, and carry it around with her wherever she went.

His soft, reassuring smile told her everything that she needed to know, that Quasi loved her, in his own way, and would never lead her astray, never lie to her, never leave her, or ask of her to do anything that she was not comfortable with, that he would be a wonderful father to this baby, whether it was his or not, and Belle smiled back, sinking into his stronghold, not wanting to leave it.

She parted her lips to speak, though Quasi lifted a finger to her lips, effectively silencing her. She blinked in surprise, though did not question it.

"Don't." Quasi pleaded, the desperation in his voice evident, before moving his finger, and pressing his hand against her cheek, giving the bell ringer more support to push himself towards her as he effortless swung his legs over the railing and returned to the balcony terrace floor to be closer to her, and connect their lips again. He did not exactly know what was happening, but it was intoxicating. _Sinful_. But if it were with Belle, then so be it, for nothing could stop something so exhilarating, something that felt so _right_.

His lips were firm against hers, but the kiss remained soft, gentle, slow. The two of them held it for a few seconds before their lips began to move in perfect sync, slowly, cautiously. Quasi exhaled through his nose, not wanting to let go. His entire body had been taken over by the overwhelming feeling of relief, combined with eccentric panic, and lust.

He moved his hand from her cheek to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her long, dark chocolate hair, lightly pulling her into him, adding more pressure to their lips, deepening the kiss before breaking apart after what felt like several minutes.

"Thank you," he said at last, his voice sounding somewhat pained.

Belle blinked in surprise; her hands still wrapped around his neck. "For what?" she whispered, truly at a loss for words, her cheeks flushed with color.

"For being my world, and for being yourself," he answered softly. Belle looked back at him, and there was a softness in his cobalt orbs as bright as sapphires. His eyes glistened in the light.

Belle let out a sigh and looked down at her lap, painfully twisting her fingers together, weaving her fingers in between her knuckles in agitation, afraid that, if she stared any longer, she would ruin his beauty and handsomeness, for when she looked at him, she did not see the contusion above his left browbone that was really not as bad as he thought it was. The man had a handsome face and the warmest smile around.

He did not like that Belle looked away, for her betrothed only took his finger and lifted her chin upwards so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

Although his eyes were soft, Belle noticed the feelings behind them, as if he were longing for something. He rested his forehead against hers, and she felt the warmth again. One that she had never experienced before. It filled her body, from head to toe, invigorating Belle and filling her with a passion and hope that was powerful, one that she had previously been led to believe did not exist. He leaned his head closer to hers and his lips met hers for a kiss.

Gentle but passionate, he held her as close as he dared, pressing his lips into hers. The world and the bell tower's balcony terrace around them slowed, so Belle could be in the moment. Her heart fluttered, and she kissed back.

Belle cherished the moment and Quasi. She had not known that a kiss could ever be like this, only having known abuse at the hands of Gaston.

But Quasi, he made her feel like none of that mattered anymore, that she could entomb her memories of Gaston in a thick wall of ice. His lips were soft and warm, and she shivered as he put his gloved hand on the back of her head.

The bell ringer pulled her closer to him, and they pulled back and smiled. Belle laid her head on his strong shoulder, and though she was still filled with the incredible heat, warmth from their kiss, she felt and heard herself shiver.

"Are you cold?" Quasi asked but did not give Belle time to answer as he quickly darted inside the tower loft, returning a moment with a thick woolen blanket and without waiting to be asked, draped it over her shoulders gently.

The two of them stood out on the balcony watching the sunrise at that moment and did not say another word, for it was too precious to ruin.


	29. Worth the Risk

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

The battlement of a castle that lay on the edge of the woods, just on the outskirts of Paris, was as washed out as the evening sky, one gray leaching into the other and each just as frigid without the sun. The granite was slick under the constant haze and robbed the heat of any man that dare lay next to it.

Nevertheless, two men did, backs flat to the unforgiving rock that protected their bodies from would-be arrows of enemy intruders. Two soldiers lay in wait to protect their Prince's estate and its inhabitants from intruders, greedy men who would seek to take away what was rightfully their Prince's.

The Prince's castle lay like an old man of the hill, the moonlight shining down on his craggy, tumbledown face. Moss clung in the shade of the ancient walls like a straggly beard. The once-proud turrets had crumbled in places, giving the impression that there was no one bold enough to consider caring for the estate, letting it instead fall to ruins. Before travelers could clear the woodland, the fortress dogs would bay to announce your coming.

Should you be foolish enough to travel by night, the Prince would merely send his best huntsmen to ensure your insipid little quest ended before the rising of the dawn. Delay until you are blessed by the rays of the Parisian morning and the guards will at least grant you the right to speak. Rested inside this castle, nestled within the cold stone walls of the East Wing of the proud estate, sat the Prince.

The young nobleman was so busy staring at the massive oil portrait of himself and he furrowed his brows in quandary, smiling in an almost unhinged manner, as he almost methodically and lazily turned over a silver dagger in the palm of his hand.

"S—sire. You sent for me." Prince Adam heaved a dejected little sigh before turning to face his advisor, Monsieur Cogsworth, knuckles bone-white and raised in mid-knock.

He didn't even have to look to imagine the elderly gentleman was probably wringing his hands painfully together in immense agitation, beads of sweat glittering upon his wrinkled and lined brow. Old Cogsworth had a fringe of gray-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back that was slightly hunched over in pain. His lined and weathered, careworn face held the resigned look of one who knew that, at his age, life has stopped giving and only took things away. With each movement he made, there was the crack and creaking of old bones that suffered from a horrible stiffness of the joints. Arthritis, maybe.

"What is it," he slurred. By this point in the evening, considering how much wine he had consumed, he had quite forgotten his original request. His strong hands gripped the tin flagon of wine tightly as he poured himself another decanter of red merlot, his cobalt eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressing sense of a horrible headache. He sighed as the walls blurred and distorted in the corner of his vision.

"The—the Judge has arrived, monsieur. Shall I send him inside?"

The Prince did not immediately answer Monsieur Cogsworth visibly flinched and shrank further back into the shadows of the corridor, lingering in the open doorway that separated the East Wing from the rest of the castle.

For the past two weeks, ever since that prickly little brunette had rejected his advances, thoughts of future bruises to impart on her unblemished, pale skin could not stop intensifying in his thoughts. How he wanted her to suffer.

"Yes, yes, Send him in, and then get out of my sight, Cogsworth," he snapped, hearing and choosing to ignore as Cogsworth emanated a tense exhale through his nostrils, and watching with something akin to amusement in his listless cobalt orbs as the advisor stepped back and stood off to the left, allowing for the distinguished Minister of Justice to enter the room, weeny snowflakes covering his set of billowing black robes and adorning his salt and pepper hair, cheeks and his spindly fingertips pinked with cold as he played with them to keep them warm as he pulled up a chair by the fire's hearth.

Monsieur Cogsworth murmured something inaudible and gingerly closed the door behind the pair of men.

The Prince did not immediately acknowledge the Judge as the pair of men sat in silence. Prince Adam looked to the roaring fire in the hearth, and for just a split moment, he thought he saw the girl, this Belle, in the flames.

She had safe eyes. Perhaps that was the best way for him to think of her eyes in those terms. How her dark chocolate locks had cascaded in natural ringlets to just past her shoulders. _If God is real_ , he told himself, _then this woman in His masterpiece_. He reflected on the last words he'd said to her.

To Belle.

_"Don't speak. Don't look me in the eye. Don't ever say 'no' to what I want or even hesitate. you are mine to do with as I wish until I tell you to get out. Only ever show lust; always ask for more, never less, never 'stop.' Please me and good things will happen, disappoint and bad things will happen. I hope you understand me; I'm sure you'd like to stay pretty, Belle."_

The Prince scowled and rested his head in his hands. What a night.

White knuckled from clutching onto his goblet too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, his rigid form as he collapsed back against his red velvet armchair exuded an animosity that he could tell was like poison—hunched over and brooding slicing, and potent. His face was white with repressed rage.

"She rejected me," he breathed, his first words to Minister and Judge Claude Frollo since the refined older gentleman had dared enter the East Wing.

Wrapping his fingers around the golden goblet, Prince Adam felt his heat leach into the drink. Wine. Sweet, sweet wine. The very elixir of his life.

He raised the cup to his lips to sip, feeling the keen burn on his tongue and throat as the alcohol poured down his throat—a burn that used to make him recoil as a young lad. Yet now, it was a feeling he longed for from the moment he awoke to the moment he collapsed on the pillow in his chambers.

Prince Adam heaved a heavy sigh as he without so much as a word to the Judge, passed the tin flagon and empty goblet towards the older man, assuming that he wished to pour himself a drink. He rested his head in his left hand, still mesmerized by the fluid swirling around in his golden goblet. He drank in silence as he mulled over what to do surrounding his troubling thoughts of making the Dupont widow suffer, for that was presumably why he had come.

He had received a raven but naught a few days ago from Claude, announcing Gaston Dupont's death and that there was another problem that would need rectifying _immediately_ , one that was out of the Minister's hands.

Furrowing his brows into a frown, Prince Adam drank in silence, hoping that the answer to their mutual little problem that was currently that of widowed Belle Dupont, who was, if the rumors surrounding the inventor's daughter held any truth to them, was expecting Gaston's child in mere months.

Only a few weeks to a month or so alone, but if the problem were not remedied immediately, then the Prince was going to have a much bigger problem on hand, for he fully intended to take the celestial-like creature as his bride. Raising the goblet to his lips and tilting his head back, no wine came.

His eyes flung open and, in his drunken haze and a cry of rage upon his lips, he let out a low guttural snarl that sounded more beast than man and flung the goblet clear across the East Wing's study, where it clattered with a loud clang and fell to the floor. Claude Frollo's gaze remained unmoving and stoic.

Unable to remain still any longer, he bolted from his chair and restlessly began to pace the floor, the heels of his black leather boots making permanent indentations into the bearskin pelt rug that lay beneath the men's feet.

"The—the wench can't insult me," he snarled through gritted teeth. "Who the bloody hell does she think she is? A saint? An angel?" he growled, snarling and hissing.

Not thinking about what he was doing, he flung out an arm in exasperation and only succeeded in upending clay vase that rested upon a small wooden shelf and sent the delicate thing crashing to the floor. This only added to the Prince's already frayed nerves and in a fit of agitation, he kicked out at the shards and send them skittering towards the fireplace, only for his wild kick to send the fragmented pieces across the other side of the room and shattered even more.

The Judge still had that look of impassive indifference plastered across unsmiling and gaunt features, though a glimmer of something unreadable darted in his glistening gray eyes. "Aye. She can and she did." His answer came steadily, as Claude Frollo's voice cut through the echoing snarls of the Prince.

He too rose from his chair and calmly set aside his goblet on top of Prince Adam's desk, clasping his hands together behind his back as he came to stand alongside Prince Adam, his eyesight following the Prince's movements as he continued to pace. Back and forth, back, and forth, in a repetitive motion.

Judge Claude Frollo snorted and watched with the smallest inklings of amusement as his acquaintance continued this incessant behavior, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. The Prince's footfalls were sounding more and more agitated the longer the young, arrogant nobleman kept up this behavior.

The Judge sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, heaving a heavy, haggard sounding sigh, as if he were fighting off a splitting headache, and for all the Prince knew, he was, given everything….

Prince Adam let out a strangely content muffled sigh from the back of his throat as the walls around him seemed to shift and morph into something unrecognizable, changing figures in the blink of an eye. He'd definitely indulged in a bit too much to drink at this point, though there was no going back. He was past that point of no return, and both he and the Judge knew it.

"What you did was _foolish_ ," Claude Frollo chastised, his voice faltering a little in his resolve as he fought back a slight cough, a result of a combination of the frigid winds outside intermingled with that of the wine he'd just drank.

The Minister watched as the handsome Prince's face blanched and turned an even deeper shade of mottled crimson. Claude inwardly growled in frustration as something darkened within the Prince's azure orbs, and the mood shifted. If the tension in the East Wing would have been color, the air would have been scarlet.

"I had presumed that after that little incident in the cathedral's library, that you were no longer interested in communicating again. I was…surprised to receive your raven within the fortnight, Your Majesty…" Claude began cautiously, eyes carefully regarding the young Prince.

But Prince Adam's focus was somewhere at a spot behind the Judge's head on the wall as if Claude had somehow become almost invisible to the young Prince, or he could not bear to look the refined gentleman in the eyes.

"What. Did. You. Say?" The Prince growled, baring his white teeth, and snarling like a vicious dog who'd just had his precious prized bone taken away from him. The Judge resisted his urge to scoff and roll his eyes at the behavior.

_Childish_. The Prince, even now as a fully-grown man of twenty and one, had _always_ been childish.

Judge Frollo coughed once to clear his throat and continued speaking. His baritone voice, while calm and resolute, was ice-cold, no warmth within his tones. "Consider this a moment to be counseled, Your Grace. You have brought this upon yourself, you know. Insulting the girl's very honor by attempting to force yourself upon her like some savage… _beast_." Frollo scrunched his nose in disgust and pulled a face. "You were not thinking your actions through and as a result, you have brought even further shame and embarrassment upon not only yourself and your family name, but me as well," he spat, turning away from the Prince and folding his arms across his chest, striding to look out the barred window, out near the balcony terrace. "When you attacked the Dupont girl, you have stepped across a non-negotiable line for which you, as _Prince_ of these lands, must accept responsibility for your own actions. It is what is expected of you, Your Grace."

The low, threatening warning growl escaped from the Judge's throat before the distinguished older gentleman could stop it happening, and he watched, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a vicious sneer, as the Prince's face paled and the Prince's lips turned into a thin, rigid line of fear.

Claude, given his power and intimidating stature, was perhaps the only soul in all of France that Prince Adam even harbored an inkling of fear and caution towards, and as such, was the only person alive who could get away with speaking such words to their land's own Prince. Any other man would find himself flayed on the morrow and fed to his hunting dogs for a little snack.

The Judge, in a rare display of true aggression, seized the Prince by the man's crimson doublet and shook it in fistfuls, closing off the gap of space so that the bridge of his hooked, slender nose, was practically touching Adam's.

"I gave you an opportunity, Your Majesty, that you have squandered and made a fool of yourself. The task I set to you was made perfectly clear: seduce the girl, get her away from the cathedral and out of my ward, and mine's lives forever. But you could not manage to handle one little _girl_ even on your own."

Claude paused, seeming to find the need to draw breath and compose himself before continuing. "You are…quite _fortunate_ , however," he began slowly, relinquishing his grip upon the Prince's doublet, though not before shoving the Prince back towards the direction of the man's velvet armchair, where he bade the Prince sit with a cold, calculating look. Adam followed suit. "That I am a _merciful_ man, Prince, and a relatively patient one. I think there is but a way to solve our mutual problem and both of us would benefit."

The Prince blearily lifted his head and regarded the stoic older gentleman with blurred vision, black spots dancing in the forefront of his line of sight.

"How?" he croaked out hoarsely, his voice sounding rougher, and yet much more subdued than it had before, and the vulnerability and brokenness in the younger man's tones and in the Prince's sad cobalt piercing blue eyes told Judge Claude Frollo everything that he needed to know: the girl would be out of his hair soon enough. "The girl has been brainwashed by your…."

But his voice trailed off and he did not complete his sentence as the Judge shot the Prince a quite literal stony expression that, had the man possessed said the ability to do so, would have turned him into one of the gargoyle grotesques that guarded both the outside of the cathedral and here in his castle, as well.

"I need not be reminded of the… _recent developments_ , Prince," Judge Frollo spat harshly as he settled back into his chair, clasping his fingers together.

For the briefest of moments, Claude was held back as he lost himself in thought as he recollected back to the conversation but two nights ago when he had last spoken with Sister Alice Beaumont, and the cantankerous old nun had informed the Judge of the Dupont widow's pregnancy in its early stages.

As the Judge of the entire city of Paris, he was more than familiar with more ambitious women that someone of Belle's stature in life, as if it were some horrible curse or plague, anything that would put a wall between them and gold and the physical pleasures of their men. Not that he was particularly bothered by this revelation that women thrived in his city, walking around with abortifacients procured by means of witchcraft, or through their local apothecary, but with Belle Dupont and the increasing likelihood that there was every indication that he had to believe that this child was not that of her lord husband's, but instead that of his own, misshapen, wretched, accursed ward, well…

This, he could simply not allow, and he would be saving the poor child from a cursed life if they were to do away with the scandal that was currently growing inside the young brunette's stomach. For it would save them both the heartache. He merely wanted this heathen witch out of his life, and yet, as Minister, it was expected of Claude to maintain certain standards in life.

If the child were to be whisked away from the cathedral at the earliest opportunity the moment it presented itself, then the Dupont widow would torment his son no longer with her heathen ways and her trickery, and if the Prince truly was of sound mind and dead set on marrying this woman, then who was he to deny the man the sordid pleasure of taking another victim?

"I cannot allow my son to be anywhere near the child. You still wish to marry her, then the simple matter remains that the cretinous demonic seed growing inside of her must be dealt with accordingly before you would even _entertain_ the thought of marriage, would I be correct in that assumption, Prince?" he drawled, swiveling his head almost lazily to better regard Adam.

The Prince mutely nodded, but then furrowed his light blond brows into a dark frown and his cobalt orbs flashed indignantly, dangerously, as the light from the glowing fire in the hearth's fireplace sent shadows of orange and red dancing across his pallid features. The Judge repressed the urge to shudder.

In this dim light, he almost looked… _beastly_. Unkempt hair, darkening circles underneath both eyelids indicating lack of sleep, his gaze cold, listless.

"Yes." The Prince's voice was soft, tinged with the hint of melancholia. "I have the best healers in this castle that anyone in Paris could ever ask for."

But before Prince Adam could grow excited at what it was exactly that Judge Frollo was proposing, the older gentleman held up a weathered, slightly shaking hand to stop him.

"They say that love is the death of man's duty, though you need not worry about that, my Prince. It is clear to me that should anyone wish to kill you," here, the Judge sneered, "they would need to aim for your head, as you have no heart. The girl is not of a sound mental state and is not capable of making any current decisions for herself," Claude explained glibly. "My plan, while admittedly unorthodox," he commented, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant way, "is quite brilliant, and I believe that it is worth the risk. I know of a man who is up to the task that I need. It will not kill the babe but will induce cramps. Enough so that the healers of the cathedral will not be able to provide adequate enough care that the child will so require to be out of danger. It is under this guise that I will arrange for a carriage to deliver her to you, wherein once she is here within these walls," he commented, glancing around at the dimly lit East Wing and repressing the urge to snort in disgust, "you may do with Belle Dupont what you wish. Kill the wretch that grows within her, marry her, impregnate her with your own spawn, it matters not."

The Judge heaved another heavy sigh as he rose from his chair, faltered only slightly in his footing as a result of the copious amounts of red wine he'd poured down his throat, turning his back on the Prince as he prepared to leave.

"You cause yourself too much trouble, Your Honor," the Prince called out, following the Judge down the hallway as he escorted him down the grand golden staircase. "You had mentioned the girl spoke to the nun of strange bleeding. Why not just let the seed bleed out while she's unconscious? It would make your life much easier and then bring her to me. But this? You would secretly wash out this unborn child albeit under the guise of helping her _heal_?"

When the Judge turned to regard the Prince, Adam scowled, as he watched the refined older man don a huge grin that told of how pleased Claude was with himself by coming up with this elaborate scheme to deal with her.

Claude was fairly confident that he could detect the faintest tones of revulsion in the Prince's tones, though that would not impede him in his mission. "I _would_. This agreement is one where both parties benefit, Your Grace. Do not question my methods, monsieur. It _will_ work. I assure you. And my…ward will be accompanying the girl as well. It is clear to me that my teachings on Quasimodo have been wasted. Such a pity." He clucked his tongue in mock disappointment and shook his head. "I can think of no other way but to ensure this one final lesson remains rooted in his mind for the rest of his wretched, miserable life than to have him watch as everything he claims to ' _love'_ is ripped apart from him. Starting with this girl, this child. You cannot stand there, Prince Adam, and tell me that you have not done the strangest things throughout your life, simply to gain their trust, old friend, and all in the name of power. Power is so much more advantageous over _love_."

Leaving the Prince alone at the foot of the stairs to ponder his words, Judge Claude Frollo turned away and felt the beginnings of a twisted grimace contort his sallow features into the widest grin that, when witnessed by Monsieur's Cogsworth and Lumiere as they escorted Paris's judge outside and to where his black carriage lay in wait, the two men could not help shuddering.

Lumiere had overheard just enough to know that the Prince was in trouble if his soul and heart continued down this dark path of festering evil.

As Lumiere slammed the door to the Judge's carriage, and the driver clucked his tongue and snapped the reins of the huge black Friesian beast into motion, the two men stood in silence for a good long moment, staring at the carriage's rapidly fading silhouette until it became engulfed in the night mist.

Cogsworth and Lumiere sighed, stretched, grumbled amongst themselves as they retreated up the castle entryway's steps and made to head back into the warmth of the indoors, both unable to stop thinking about what kind of man they had just allowed into their Prince's company, and who this Belle was.

For all their talk of scheming and whatever it was that the Judge and their Prince was planning, the possibility of a single woman within the castle walls, the next possible unfortunate soul to fall prey to the Prince's attention, did not unnerve them nearly as much as Judge Claude Frollo's wide smile had.


	30. With the King

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE **

In the dim light of the early morn that oozed through a narrow gap in the clouds above lay the alleyway. It was the underworld of Paris, gloomy, unpleasant, and Monsieur Clopin Trouillefou, its King of this Underworld.

The vines that crawled up windowsills of the small folks' homes and the crumbling decay that envelopes the old stone bricks appeared somewhat romantic at first but became daunting as the sun rose beyond the horizon, casting shadows this way and that. Darkness lurked in every corner inside his own personal labyrinth of narrow passageways and dead ends, advantages he often used when outrunning Frollo's guards.

Waste was dumped on the cobblestoned street and birds and rats nestled amongst the sprawling rot, the stench filling his nostrils as they wafted, and Trouillefou crinkled his nose in disgust and tried not to pull a face. Though as the air grew colder, Clopin could feel his strides grow stronger, more confident as he sauntered through the alleyways to remain undetected. His contact was late, not like him at all.

Furrowing his dark brows into a frown and toying with the ends of his sleek black ponytail, he pursed his lips into a thin line as his eyes befell a figure shrouded in darkness, sticking to the shadows, cloaked. He snorted, and this time, Clopin really _did_ roll his eyes.

This person was attempting to remain inconspicuous, and as a result, had done the exact opposite, and was doing a rather horrible job at remaining in the shadows undetected.

"Father," he remarked smartly, not bothering to hide his grin of satisfaction as the handsome younger priest startled at the remark and jumped.

Seeming thoroughly disgruntled, the King of the Romani people watched as Notre Dame's youngest and perhaps, in Clopin's opinion, the best, priest the entire cathedral could ask for, given his previous history as a soldier, lowered the hood of his dark cloak and scowled, knitting his brows together.

"You are late," Clopin answered airily by way of a formal greeting.

"Was I really _that_ obvious?" Darius Barret grumbled, folding his arms across his chest, and shrinking into his thick black cloak for warmth as much as he could. His cobalt sky orbs had darkened, almost cerulean in color, as his disgruntled annoyance with Clopin increased whenever he was around the flamboyant king's presence, though this little arranged meeting hadn't come lightly, and certainly not without great risk to either of them.

The King was risking arrest from Frollo if one of the men's loyal soldiers were to spot him. It was a risk, according to Monsieur Trouillefou, the man was willing to take, though it was not something that put the self-proclaimed King in a necessarily good mood. Clopin smirked and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Of course, Father. Who else would it be? You are the only one in the entire cathedral that seeks me out whenever you have a problem but…why is that?" Clopin knitted his brows together, unable to stop himself from asking. "This wouldn't perchance have to do with a certain young mademoiselle, would it?" he smirked, feeling the edges of his lips turn up.

The priest blinked, and without even having to say a word, the Romani king knew that he had his answer, as was evident in the handsome priest's shimmering cobalt blue orbs as his mouth dropped open slightly, and he stuttered, trying to think of a response, though Clopin held up a tanned hand and quickly put the poor man out of his misery, saving him the trouble of responding.

"I thought as much. Don't even think of lying to me, Father, you are terrible at this. I take it that not everyone is so happy with the news of her…rather unorthodox engagement to your cathedral's bell ringer, yes?"

Darius scowled, a gesture that created lines upon his forehead and a deep groove near the edges of his mouth as he lowered the hood of his dark cloak and raked his fingers through his thick tuft of dark hair.

"You could make that argument, yes," the priest sighed, and his gaze drifted downward. "I cannot prove it, but…I think that someone is after her still, though her…husband. She does not leave the cathedral ever, unless with _him_ or an escort," here, the dark-haired priest spat the word as though it were poison that had lingered and settled upon his tongue, "is no longer a concern. She is…nervous and is hiding something from myself and the Archdeacon. Something has happened to her recently, but she will not tell me what it is."

Clopin nodded in understanding, thinking what a week of gossip that had been for the streets and slums of Paris, there were rumors that the bell ringer himself had killed the girl's husband, running his fingers over the two-day stubble that graced his jawline as he furrowed his dark brows in quandary. Well. Given what he'd seen of the boy's ten-fold strength when he'd broken from his chains to free Esmeralda, he didn't doubt that aspect of the rumors for a single second.

"Well. I can honestly reassure you, Father, that given what I know of this Dupont girl, which is admittedly very little, that she does not seem like she poses any kind of threat. Therefore, it is beyond my capability to understand why someone would seek to do her harm unless this is less so about her, and more about your cathedral's bell ringer. Perhaps they would harm her in order to enforce an intended message, Father? It is a crude suggestion, but it is the best that I can come up with," Clopin scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line. "So, I guess you could say I am quite…ah, confused, then, Father. Why me? Why have you come to me for help in…whatever it is that you seem to think I can do for you?" he asked, turning to face the priest, and was quite surprised to see a look of concern intermingled with that of rage upon the man's pale features.

"Why not you?" Father Darius shot back, turning to regard Clopin with a look of incredulity upon his handsome features. "There is no one better, my friend. These streets, as you are fond of saying, are 'yours', are they not?"

As if to prove his point, the priest spread his arms out in front of him and gestured to the dank alleyway in which the pair of men were conversing.

The Romani King could not necessarily argue with Notre Dame's priest's point. Though as Darius Barret moved to fold his arms across his chest once more, he caught the all-too-familiar yellow gleam of the former soldier's gold wedding band he still wore on his left finger.

"Have you said anything?" Clopin asked the priest, gesturing to the man's ring with a jerk of his hand, pretending not to notice the light pink blush speckling on his cheeks. "Don't try to worm your way out of talking about this either," Clopin snapped, his tone hardening. "Have you told the girl of _her_?"

Clopin did not think he needed to emphasize whom he spoke of. He wasn't at all surprised when Father Darius Barret violently shook his head.

"If she really reminds you of Han…of _her_ ," Clopin corrected himself quickly, knowing how the mention of his deceased wife's name could oft provoke the man's temper, "then should you not say something to her? I can see it in your eyes even now and don't skirt around this. You should see it."

As the distant clanging of the cathedral's bells echoed in the distance, Darius's cobalt orbs darkened, almost cerulean in color.

The image of Belle's face flitted to the front of his mind, distraught, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as he recounted the young girl's confession of dark thoughts towards that of her deceased husband, and how, she wasn't quite certain if she would grow to love the growing child within her. It chilled his insides.

She had refused to speak further of the incident and had gone to a nearby tavern of all places, insisting that she needed a drink. Alice had informed him only a half-hour ago of this and Darius sought to bring her back to the cathedral, kicking and screaming if he had to.

It was dangerous for her to wander the streets alone, though her husband, Monsieur Gaston was no longer a problem for her, he could not shake that man's voice from the other side of the confessional screen a few weeks ago. "She's in danger."

Darius scowled, raking his fingers through his tuft of thick dark hair. "She should have stayed by me. I could have…I could have protected her, so could Quasi, but she's wandered off again." _Belle_. Even the mention of her name caused his heartstrings to give a painful lurch.

Her dark hair. Her dark brown eyes the color of a million hues. Hers were the forest and the autumnal leaves, the soil in summer, and after the rains. How could he ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word such as brown, when the colors invited him to marvel in their simplicity? Her eyes were beautiful.

With a frustrated shout, he balled his hand into a fist and struck the wall behind him, catching the Romani King off-guard. He wasn't concerned.

Clopin was the first to recover. "I think, given everything, Father, that might be the first time I've ever seen you truly lose control over another woman since…her. You care for this mademoiselle. For the lady Belle."

He was careful to mind his choice of words, not knowing how Darius would react.

Darius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He was getting a damned splitting headache and this topic of conversation was not helping. "More than you know," he answered quietly. "She—she means more to me than I can put into words, Monsieur," he snapped.

Darius sighed, closing his eyes, though it seemed no matter what he did, this woman, she who was the spitting image of his Hanna from another life, a happier time, she always managed to seep into his thoughts.

Belle, the strange material of beauty with the beautiful dark, warm brown hair the color of mahogany. Her sharp eyes that never missed a thing, capable of counting the flaps in a hummingbird's wing, and steadfast determination.

Darius closed his eyes and tried to push away the pain of an oncoming headache. Pain, either physical or psychological, was all he felt these days. Heartache at losing his baby girl, and now faced with the thought of losing the only friend he had left. He couldn't bear the thought.

He tried to numb it with alcohol, with wine back at the cathedral, usually when he would drink with Alice, but to no avail. It never left him. His memories kept ripping at him, tearing into his heart and mind and very soul, always whispering the same name repeatedly, whether he liked it or not.

_Belle. She's all you have left of Hanna and this is killing you_. He heaved a strangled, choking sob and struggled, as it turned into a coughing fit. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he grasped onto the wall behind him to steady himself and felt his shoulders relax as he felt Clopin come up behind him and support him, helping him to stand.

"What's your story, Father?" Clopin asked, quirking his brow at the priest. "It's obvious you're hiding something from me, you've been in Paris a while and still, we know so little about you. It's clear to me, you and this girl, Belle, there's…something there, and judging by the look in your eyes, you can't imagine life without her."

Darius felt the last of his strength give out as he collapsed into a chair, rubbing his temples wearily. _Dare I tell Clopin the truth?_

One look at the man's lined and tanned face was more than enough. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and choosing to focus his gaze at a spot on the wall behind Clopin's head. "I had a wife once. Hanna. And a baby girl. The only good thing in a bad life that was taken away from me. When they were gone, I—I didn't know what to do, so I joined the French army, and one day, something in me changed. I don't know…"

"The girl," nodded Clopin quietly, agreeing. "If there's one thing that will make men give up acts of violence, it's a woman. So how did you become Darius the Destroyer, then? Don't you give me that look, you're famous all throughout Europe, Father."

Darius fell silent for a moment, thinking. "You know, it's funny, now that you say that," he murmured quietly. "Before, before I was a soldier, I would often go for rides on my horse when my…when Hanna died. It was the only way I could clear my thoughts. And I'd get this—this feeling that…something was behind me, a presence. Almost as if…as if it were waiting for me to become it. Darkness." Darius shot Clopin a dark look but continued. "This girl reminds me so of Hanna, Belle does, and in some way, I guess, she is now all I have left of my old life, and…" he hesitated, unsure if he should continue. "You're right in that there is… _something_ there, but I can never act on it," he admitted, looking pained. "Not now."

"Why not?" challenged Alice hotly. "You have a choice."

"I don't want to ruin what she and our church's bell ringer have," he confessed, averting the sisters' piercing gaze, suddenly uncomfortable. "If I were to ever act on my urges one day, everything would change, and I can't risk losing her friendship. I just can't."

"No offense, Father, but that's a bunch of bullshit." Clopin snapped, not bothering to mind his language around the priest, considering they weren't on Holy Ground. "You will never know how this young mademoiselle feels unless you take a chance and ask her. If you don't, don't come crying and complaining to us if she marries your bell ringer one day because you were too much of a coward to confess your love," the man added, as an afterthought. "Oh, look at that, I have made you jealous," snorted Clopin, rolling his eyes and draining his wineskin of wine. "It's charming."

"I won't have Belle in harm's way any longer," growled Darius darkly, standing shakily to his feet. "She means too much to me to ever have her put her life at risk again. I can't lose her too. Our friendship is…unique, I'll give you that but I..." His voice trailed off, and he did not complete his thought.

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Clopin.

He fixed the Romani King with a hard stare. "Not let her go." His piece said, he pulled the hood of his cloak back up over his head and pursed his lips into a thin line. "I called you here to use those eyes and ears of yours, _King_. Use whatever resources, your little spies, I don't care. But the girl is in danger, and I cannot protect her on my own. Neither can Quasi, considering the boy almost never leaves his damned bloody towers," he scowled. "The girl frequently travels to the marketplace and about town in the mornings, her nose always stuck in a book, and as such," Darius sighed exasperatedly, "does not always mind her surroundings, nor the people around her. I don't know who could want to hurt her, but someone is after her. I need you. _Help me_ ," he pleaded. " _You will let me know_ if you see or hear anything."

It was _not_ a request coming from the former soldier, and Clopin knew better than to argue with Darius.

He did, after all, owe Darius a life debt after the man had saved his life one day after he'd gotten into a drunken brawl with some ruffians in the very tavern that he could have sworn he saw the young brunette mademoiselle head off towards earlier, a distraught look in her eyes.

Clopin nodded, though the Romani King made no move or gesture of farewell as he watched the priest swiftly exit the alleyway and head towards the tavern, fully intending to bring the young woman back to the cathedral.

The King could not help the sardonic little snort that escaped through his nose as Clopin too, made to turn away and head back towards his Court.

He did not know what exactly it was that Darius was expecting he would find, though the Father had been right on one account: he did have a vast disposal of resources—namely, his own people—to act as his eyes and ears, given that he himself could not be in multiple places all at once.

It was tiring his job. Being King of an entire race of people. Clopin rarely helped people that were not his own, but it seemed he did his job rather well.

Time and time again he had seen disappointment etched in the faces of his own kind following their persecution and arrest at the hands of none other than Frollo, and though this woman, this Belle Dupont, was not one of his own, if the rumors of this child's beauty were true, Clopin could not quite explain it but he knew he did not wish the girl to be in turmoil, though he did not know this girl for himself, though that needed to change.

If Darius wished for him to help her, then like it or not, Clopin wanted to be able to look at this Dupont widow in the eyes and judge her character for himself. To learn if Belle was even worthy of his efforts of a King's help.

The young woman was unlike any other creature in the entire city of Paris if he were to believe the rumors of his people and the other smallfolk of Paris for himself. She was said to stick out like a sore thumb and was the object of everyone's attention, whether the people liked her or not.

And yet…it was rumored that this Belle was quite a clever little minx, much smarter than those in the villages gave her credit for, and Clopin wondered what on earth would compel such a beauty to take an interest in the cathedral's deformed bell ringer. He pondered over this troublesome idea.

Though he did not know her yet, he could not turn away Darius's plea for help, and now, with things seeming to be escalating as quickly as they were, first with the girl's husband's death, and now her rumored pregnancy and pending marriage to the cathedral's bell ringer, and then there was the matter of this strange threat that Darius had received, though the man dared not speak of it, lest he faces ex-communication, though the man had always been a terrible liar. It was those glistening sky-blue orbs of his. They always spoke the truth. The girl was in grave danger, and Clopin had to help.

Though he was bothered by the idea of helping someone, much less a young mademoiselle, that he had never met before. He had to see her.

Clopin furrowed his dark brows into a frown and mulled over his options. Sooner or later than naught, he wanted to meet this stranger for himself, and it was then that a plan began to take root in his mind.

He did not bother to hide the small smirk that tugged on the corners of his lips as he knew just the very person to lure the girl out of her comfort zone and bring this she-stranger, this young mademoiselle, to Clopin.

Clopin shuddered as a tremor went down his spine as he cut through the side alleyway towards the Rat Hole to talk to his intended person of interest. He knew just the person to escort Belle to his Court of Miracles.

Though as he risked one last glance over his shadow before disappearing into the shadows, the Romani King could not help the grim expression that formed on his face. He could not shake the feeling of dread that traveled down his spine.

For better or worse, everything was about to change.


	31. The Union

**CHAPTER THIRTY **

Belle exhaled a tense and shaking breath through her nose as she regarded her pale, and somewhat ashen reflection in the mirror opposite her in the bell ringer's tower, the very man who was about to become her husband in little less than fifteen minutes, and she looked towards the balcony terrace and out at the sky, at the darkening rolling purple thunder. It was rumored to be good luck if it rained on your wedding day, but no one had ever mentioned thunder.

She played with the edges of her pinkish tipped fingers to keep them warm in the drafty cold of Quasi's bell tower, lovingly twirling the gold band she was to wear permanently on her finger, unable to keep still as she felt herself practically explode into motion.

The inventor's daughter could not decide which was worse. The rolling nerves in her stomach brought on by a bout of nervousness followed by morning sickness surrounding her unplanned and unexpected pregnancy, or the fact that the ceremony the Archdeacon was about to perform for the two of them was, while strictly and perfectly legal, very much a secret, or at least, she hoped, for if the man's maître and caretaker were to find out, then Frollo would most assuredly not be pleased with what Quasi had done.

She heaved a heavy sigh and glanced for what had to be the tenth time at her reflection. Her wedding dress was of brilliant sky-blue color, the color of a robin's egg, or the sky after a fresh summer rainfall, and brought attention to the differing myriad shades of brown with rich undertones of copper that had a tendency to catch the light of the sun whenever she moved in such a way.

The dress had a wide skirt and sleeves, the garment itself made of natural cotton that allowed for her to breathe, the sleeves made of thin blue batiste.

Her dark hair cascaded in natural curls to just past her shoulders, and atop her head, she wore a brass circlet crown, simplistic but truly a marvelous thing of beauty that Father Darius had loaned to her, though when prompted where he had gotten it, he refused to speak and had become uncharacteristically somber.

Belle bit the inside wall of her cheek and ran her tongue over her teeth, hoping that no one would bear witness to their ceremony that was not supposed to, save for the Archdeacon, Sister Alice, and Captain Phoebus.

For if Frollo found out, Belle shuddered as a tremor of revulsion went down her spine. She did not like to think of _that_ thought. Just that thought alone of what the cruel, tyrannical judge would do, the type of harm he would inflict on Quasi was enough to make her stomach churn and she thought she might vomit as she tasted the bitter acidic stomach bile coat the back of her throat, though she swallowed it back and set her face to passive neutrality.

She hoped that her eyes did not betray her fear. It was not that she minded wedding the cathedral's bell ringer. On the contrary, she thought that Quasi would make a wonderful husband and father to the baby growing within her, never mind that the child was not his by blood. He was as good as, at this point.

Quasi was far from the worst man she could marry, and she'd had her fill in the life of terrible men surrounded by men like Gaston Dupont and LeFou.

Notre Dame's bell ringer treated her with respect, was good-looking enough, she supposed if you were fortunate enough to look past the contusion over the man's left brow bone, which she had learned to do upon the first night the man allowed her to truly see his face.

Though it did nothing to quell the vicious rumors that Alice and Sister Maria had told her during the last week.

Rumors of that vicious Prince somehow finding a way to manage to attend her wedding, though she wondered how that could be, for the members of the royal family had no say within these stone walls, in this safe sanctuary.

It was this fact alone that rang in Belle's ears like a mantra, refusing to part from her thoughts, though it did nothing to quell the raging storm in her stomach or the fact that she needed to head downstairs to the nave. It was time.

The moment she had both been dreaming of and dreading was here. Belle descended the stairwell of the north bell tower loft alone, her eyes closed once she reached the final step, wishing for nothing more than for her father to be here.

_Were that you were by my side, Papa, I might have strength enough_. Belle's dark eyes flung wide open and she blinked back the beginnings of briny tears. Belle had to lift the skirts of her long gown to avoid tripping over it as she dared to step off the final step, and in some ways, she supposed, towards a new future, hopefully, a better life for herself than the one she had with Gaston.

Belle suppressed a shudder as she looked at the pathway before her, and every second with every step forward in her slippers that she forced her body to take another step forward, left her chest heaving with breathless woe and worry.

_This is not right. Though I am to marry a good man, Papa should be here by my side_ , she thought in obscurity. _This is not the way that things should be_.

Upon the sight of both Father Darius Barret, looking regal tonight in a set of simple black robes that he'd swapped his brown monk's habit for, his boots shined as well as his thick tuft of dark hair, his amazingly brilliant cobalt blue eyes fixated solely on her as though she were but the last woman in all of Paris.

Though the minute his eyes alighted on how ashen her face was, and seeing her face beginning to twist and crumple under the strain of grief at mourning her father's death on what should otherwise have been a happy day for her, and every inch of her protested as she neared the length of the nave.

But there was naught that she knew of that could turn back time and send her back to her sweet sanctuary, her safe haven when it was just her and Papa.

"Lady Belle." Darius's voice was curt though soft, and his reserved voice cut through her haze of conflicting thoughts, and Belle blearily looked at him.

He was waiting for her with an outstretched arm, and Belle quickly ascertained that the priest had been kept waiting there for quite some time now.

But before Belle could numbly accept the handsome priest's arm and allow the man to escort him down the aisle towards where her future husband lay in wait, an unexpected, much taller, and more imposing figure towered behind him.

"Oh, _You_ ," she whisper hissed through gritted teeth, taking a huge step back. "What are _you_ doing here? You have some _nerve_ daring to show your face to me again after what happened. Monsieur?" she quickly added, and against her better judgment, she gathered the skirts of her dress and sank into a curtsy.

Though she _despised_ this nobleman, who was not a noble man at all, Belle was not apt to forget proper edict, though it was much less than this one deserved. The Prince from a few weeks ago stood behind Father Darius, who turned and regarded the cathedral's newest arrival with a look of utter outrage.

Prince Adam was looking every bit the Prince Charming from the fairytales and folk tales her father had used to read to her when she was little.

Though, admittedly, there was something…off, about his initial appearance. Dark circles had formed underneath his face, which was paler than usual, and it appeared as though the man had not held a decent night's sleep in a matter of days. Perhaps weeks. His blond ponytail now looked disheveled and mused, though there was no denying that despite these minor discrepancies, he still looked a Prince very much, though his cobalt blue eyes had not changed.

Belle doubted they ever would. Still as cold and listless as the last time she had laid eyes on this man.

She felt herself instinctively stiffen as the Prince, clad in a black leather overcoat a thick crimson dress shirt underneath, stepped forward and offer the young woman his arm, his gaze briefly traveling up and down her body, admiring the brunette's form in her light sky-blue gown.

"I merely wished to congratulate you, little dove, on your…wedding," the Prince began in a tone laced with false courtesy and joy as he turned towards Father Darius, whose face was now beaded with sweat and he was at a loss. "Father," the Prince murmured lowly. "I should like your permission to escort this lovely little dove of a bride the rest of the way down the aisle to receive her future… _husband._ I would not dare to miss my beloved former friend's widow's special day, would I? I have merely come to pay my respects."

"Then pay your respects to me by _leaving_ ," Belle whisper hissed angrily.

" _Belle_." Father Darius's previously stunned expression had hardened in response to Belle's admittedly warranted aggression and replied to the young mademoiselle in a clipped tone, "You will mind your tongue in present company, mademoiselle. Such talk outside of these walls would normally be considered treason, and you would be tried and most likely executed for daring to speak out against the royal family. The Prince is of noble blood, Belle. It is not my place to speak on such matters, but…if you do not allow him this simple request, then it is my fear that your life will… become much more _difficult_."

Something about the priest's hesitant tone laced with fear gave Belle paused and she slowly stilled in her movements to retreat from the Prince.

She cocked her head to the side and regarded Darius in confusion, knitting her brows together in quandary. What did Darius know that he was not saying?

Belle's frown deepened as she bit the inside wall of her cheek in anguish. Though the briefest flickers of anger darted through the handsome priest's orbs as his gaze wandered between the Prince and Belle, the man quickly bowed his head in submission and relinquished his grip on Belle's forearm.

Belle could only watch hopelessly as Darius was forced to step aside for the Prince, and as he did so, he offered an awkward little half-bow in the Prince's presence. "Of course, Your Grace," Father Darius murmured courteously.

But Belle was not at all fooled. She recognized the tell-tale signs as Darius's jaw jumped in agitation, the signs of a man whose patience was being tested.

Soon, Belle was left alone with the Prince, who just the very sight of the blond-haired, blue-eyed nobleman made her blood curdle within her veins, as if soured by lemon and old milk. Belle's mind screamed at her to recoil in disgust as she felt the Prince latch onto her arm, the man's nails digging into the fabric of one of her sleeves, his spindly fingers tightly clutching onto Belle's left arm.

It was almost possessive in a way, and it was not until the Prince took a casual step forward that Belle was pulled back to her gaping future, a life with Notre Dame's bell ringer. Without her father by her side, instead, this vicious serpent of a Stranger was wound around her arm like a poison ivy tendril, and it was enough to set her blood aflame and burn.

"What are you _doing_? And _why_?" Belle snarled through gritted teeth as the man proceeded to escort her down the aisle. She was careful to keep her voice low, barely above a whisper, though it was not enough to prevent the fuming rage and fear from seeping into her voice.

The pathway before them was lighted with candelabras, and as the Prince and Belle passed them, the inventor's daughter was sure it equaled despair and hopelessness in her face, though a little hope returned when she saw _his_ face. Quasi stood tall and proud, perhaps taller than she had already seen him. When he stood up straight like he tended to do around her, he was almost as tall as Judge Frollo, standing at around 5'8 or 5'9 if Belle had to hazard a guess.

The man's shimmering crystal blue eyes were fixated on her. Solely her, and if he recognized the Prince, he did not notice, nor did he comment on it.

He merely proceeded to look at her as if all of Paris had become devoid of anything else, and she was the only thing left in his desolate and small world.

His eyes were an electrifying blue that sent a tremor down her spine, though not one of fear or revulsion, but one of a strange almost giddiness.

Belle could have sworn she saw Quasi blush, a light pink blush speckling high along his cheeks before he promptly looked away, that one stubborn thick lock of fiery red hair hanging limp in his one good eye as he promptly lowered his head. She thought her future husband looked as dashing as one could in a plain black tunic and black leather breeches, his black boots shined and gleamed.

For a moment, she quite forgot the bastard that was clinging to her arm. At least, until he dared open his mouth to speak to her, and Belle visibly flinched.

"You think that I would truly miss this opportunity to give my former best friend's widow away to an accursed wretch? This is a fitting punishment for you, little dove. After all, I did offer you this chance of a lifetime, and you scorned it. You denied me, and you have betrayed me. And that is your answer as to your ' _why_ ,'" the Prince retorted coldly to Belle, murmuring under his breath. The Prince cast a wary glance towards the cathedral's bell ringer and scrunched his nose. "You truly are marrying a monster. The monster and a witch, for only a witch, would marry a demon. You are perfect for each other."

Prince Adam scrunched his nose in disgust. "Glorious day indeed…"

There was a strange glistening in the man's darkening cerulean blue eyes that Belle was not at all sure that she liked, and she gulped nervously as the nobleman squinted at Belle out of the corner of his eye as he continued to escort her down the aisle through hardened eyes that would have, perhaps in another life, been Belle's salvation, or so she had foolishly believed when she was a young girl with naïve dreams of meeting and marrying a Prince one day.

But now, they only brought the unfounded accusations of a jealous would-be lover, though she knew that she would _never_ align herself with the likes of someone with the mannerism that the Prince possessed. Or rather, his _lack_ of manners. Their color during his last visit reminded Belle of the sky, where the blue of the oceans blended into the blue of the sky, but now…now they were simply chilling. Ever muscle in the Prince's face was tense and without a single word, the nobleman communicated to Belle a sense of intense mistrust, anger, betrayal, hurt, and a myriad of other unidentifiable emotions within his eyes.

The way the Prince's facial muscles tensed, the way he glowered at her, silently seething, clenching his fist not curled around her arm repeatedly.

And the horrible way the man was smirking at her as they stopped a moment. Belle couldn't prove it, but she knew the Prince was planning something, though what that thing might be, Belle had not the faintest idea.

Belle bit the inside of her cheek and before she could fathom what was happening, she felt her arm move of its own accord and untangle itself from the wretched Prince who had dared attempt assault within the cathedral's own walls, and she moved away from the man with the head and eyes of a pit viper serpent, the true head of a Beast, as he stared back at her as she wrenched her arm away violently, as though the very touch of his hand on hers burned her.

She tasted bitter, acidic bile creeping its way from her throat, wherein it settled upon her tongue like a disgusting and bitter poison that only lingered.

The words that tumbled unchecked out of her lips to the miserable excuse for a member of the royal family walking in tandem next to her erupted before Belle could even fathom a prayer of stopping her temper from imploding.

"I can _walk_ by myself, Your Grace, thank you," Belle answered stiffly, resting the urge to stomp her foot and kick the Prince in the place where she knew it would hurt him the worst. Tempting though it was, she was still a noble, albeit a widowed noble, and especially here in the sanctity of the church, such behavior was condemned and deemed unladylike and not appropriate.

Belle promptly turned away from Prince Adam and stiffened her facial muscles, preparing for another one of the man's childish outbursts as she turned her back on the Prince of these lands here in Paris and left the vicious man-boy standing in the middle of the aisle of the nave, a flabbergasted expression etched on his face, with his lips parted open in shock and mouth agape, at a total loss.

She knew as she walked up the rest of the aisle and towards where Quasi and the Archdeacon waited that she had, perhaps, made the gravest mistake of her life just now by behaving so abhorrently towards a member of the royal family, and yet, Belle could not even remotely bring herself to care an ounce.

What she did know, was that she did not want to see the murderous expression in the noble Prince's eyes, and she could not quell the sinking feeling that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach as it churned and swooped.

Belle swallowed down the bile and briefly clenched her eyes shut, praying that she wasn't about to be sick. Thankfully, the momentary spell of nausea passed, and she slowly opened her eyes to regard the man she was about to wed.

There was a rather uncharacteristic way that her bell ringer was looking at her just now, a mixture of admiration at how she had just behaved towards the Prince, for there were not many in all of Paris, much less a woman, who would dare to have the audacity, the gall, to refuse the Prince, and perhaps a mixture of something else, something that Belle could not quite identify what that was.

Belle was startled out of her thoughts as the Archdeacon spoke, his baritone voice resonating from this burly, aging man in his white pristine robes.

"Who comes before God on this evening to be wed?" the man asked her.

"Lady Belle, of the House Dupont," Belle heard herself speak, her voice cracking and wavering slightly as she was forced to raise her voice so that their four attending witnesses: Captain Phoebus and his wife, Fleur, Sister Alice, and Father Darius, and she supposed now, a fifth, the fifth being the Prince, could hear her.

Belle swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. "I have come here to be wed. I am a woman grown, trueborn and noble, and widowed, sire. I came to seek the approval and the blessing of God in holy matrimony tonight. To…be one with my own kin. The choice is mine. I give of myself on this night since my father is no longer with us on this earth to give away the bride. I would like to take this man as my husband, Your Grace, if it pleases you, sir."

"And who claims this woman?" the Archdeacon asked of Quasi in return.

Notre Dame's bell ringer cleared his throat once and took a slight half-step forward. "I do. I have come to claim this woman." His voice was sure, resolute.

It did not escape Belle nor Quasi's attention that as he spoke the words, the Prince's look lost the impassive look on his face and replaced within it was a silent, but cautious and fuming expression as he moved to stand next to Alice.

The Archdeacon coughed, clearing his throat once. "Do you take this man?"

Belle bit the inside wall of her cheek as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other to silently regard Quasimodo, who was starting to look rather tense and timid, as though afraid that perhaps Belle had changed her mind in this regard, which could not have been further from the truth. His eyes were narrowed, suspicious, and yet, strangely hopeful, which Belle found endearing.

It was the hope she chose to cling to instead of the other emotions within. The hope that she would treat him well, as his wife, and mother of their child the moment it emerged from the womb and drew breath. Belle would certainly try, though she felt it was _she_ who did not deserve _him_.

She exhaled nervously through her nose and shifted her head to the left slightly to regard Quasi, shot him a brief, curt smile to ease his discomfort, and stated, "I, Belle Dupont, take this man." She stifled her smile as she again heard the guests murmured their blessings and approval of the match, one which Belle accepted. Quasi stepped towards her and looking into her eyes, she could not stop the feeling of squeamishness that rolled through her stomach in painful cramps.

Though Belle could not help but think that her about-to-be-husband had beautiful cobalt blue eyes for being disregarded and different. The bell ringer sighed and looked at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. She had never seen any other emotion lingering within them other than contempt.

But now, it was as if they embraced the wind. A brief gust before returning to a calm sea.

The emotion in her bell ringer's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. They had a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of hazel radiating in softly swooping arcs. To say that his eyes were blue was like saying that the sun was yellow.

Sufficient but not accurate to capture the burning. Belle blinked, pulling herself out of her stupor as she realized she had lost herself in staring at his eyes.

How sad they looked. Tinged with melancholic, and angry at the world.

The people often said that eyes were the window to a person's soul. But the thing is, she could see right through Quasi. She could see his pains and his gentleness just the same, as she could see his overwhelming desire to be loved and accepted by people who just quite frankly did not give a damn about him.

Belle saw how every single emotion came together to form the art of his soul. It formed a picture she could see in a split instant and comprehend with full depth. So, she saw Quasimodo at this moment, for what he was. _Who_ he was.

When she would tell him later that she believed his eyes to be beautiful, the best quality about him besides his mind and his thick tuft of ginger hair atop his head, Belle knew this to be the truth, for it was not about the eyes' colors or shapes.

No. It was about the human essence that was so clearly there.

Those angry eyes of his were his pains untold, and Belle suddenly wished that he would tell it, given they were about to become man and wife, that she could better understand Quasi and understand how his mind worked, she did.

As his wife, she would be forced to be his in any storm, but…here was the thing. He would have to keep her safe from them. He would have to let Belle all the way in so that he would always trust her, and she only ever saw his kind eyes, because God below only knew that she had seen enough anger in this life.

Because…, and she could not believe she was admitting this next part, that she _wanted_ to stay with Quasi if it meant that she would be safe if there was even an inkling that she might be able to return home one day, but he would have to be good for her too.

The Archdeacon spoke again in an ancient, warbling old tone. "My son, you will give your token of promise to Belle, that you will promise to keep her and cherish her, as a signature to her and her house."

"I do," he answered solemnly, and even Belle was surprised at the seriousness of Quasi's tone. The man who laughed often made jokes…

If she was being honest with herself, there was a small part of her that looked forward to keeping the company of a man who could make her laugh, for she could not honestly remember the last time that she genuinely laughed or smiled, save for the moment in the tower but a few days ago when they'd had that wonderful discussion of books and discussing philosophy at length.

The Archdeacon mumbled something to the pair of them, but Belle was not paying very close attention. She watched, inhaling a sharp breath of air as Quasi took a somewhat hesitant step forward, bound out of a sense of duty to his house to seal their union with their first kiss as husband and wife. Belle immediately tensed, though upon seeing the hurt look in Quasi's brilliant blue eyes, she let out a sigh and gave an apologetic nod.

Belle found herself staring deep into Quasi's ocean blue eyes, hating the thudding of her heartbeat as it rattled against its cage in the confines of her chest, beating so damn loudly she couldn't even concentrate on what had just happened.

It felt like she was going to explode as Quasi carefully stepped forward and slipped the plain gold wedding band onto her finger. They were…they were _wed_. She let a tired sigh escape her lips, closing her eyes in anticipation for whatever was coming next, though she knew it, and he did. They _all_ knew it.

Then, without warning, something warm yet coarse pressed themselves against her lips. Belle's eyes flung wide open as she fought against the urge to press back, knowing that right now, with all eyes in the nave watching, such an unexpected gesture on her part might be too much for him.

It took Belle approximately one point three seconds to realize that Quasi had— _was_ —kissing her and a further three-point eight seconds for Belle to realize she was returning it. His lips were slightly chapped, and she could taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue, but she did not care because all she could focus on was _this_.

For now, just forcing her body to relax and keeping still would have to be enough. She had to remember to keep things slow, for her sanity, and for his.

Belle firmly believed that there was no doubt in Quasi's mind that she reviled him, repulsed by his appearance, his scar, though she knew that not to be the case. In fact, his lips felt warm against hers and created a strange, burning tingling that she did not know could ever exist, but nor could she have ever imagined that her first kiss to a man that she actually _loved_ would come from him.

But, still, it felt nice, and perhaps a little bit of pressure was not going to overwhelm him? She breathed slowly through her nose, taking a deep breath and returned the strange pressure that was against her lips. Quasi's reaction was more startled than she expected, and she wondered if she had gone too far.

Yet, when she tried to pull away, her now-husband's hand came up and cupped the back of her head, slowing her movements.

"It is all right," he whispered, pulling back slightly so that he could see her clearly, taking note of how high and flushed her cheeks were, bright pink in color. His own face was flushed a deep crimson, which made the ragged pink and white lines of his scar that much more shocking against his skin, and he looked rather apologetic.

He relinquished his hold from her cheek and untangled his hands from her hair, pulling away as though she had burned him, looking rather put off and sheepish. "Come," he murmured, gesturing with a curt wave of his arm as the few witnesses in the nave began to disperse and talk amongst themselves, heading back towards home.

Belle exhaled shakily through her nose as she followed her husband's lead, her head held high and actively avoided everyone's gaze, though she could feel the Prince's glacier cold stare practically burning a hole in the back of her skull, hotter than any branding iron for cattle, horses or sheep as the boy-prince fell into line behind them, and she flinched.

She sincerely hoped their Prince of these lands would depart, and soon.

Quasi noticed her look and cast a wary glance back over his shoulder towards Adam, who still had the strange little gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, and he furrowed his brows into a frown. "Our Prince will remember your refusal of his arm, Belle," he murmured, lowering his voice so that only Belle could hear.

She scowled, feeling her brows knit together in a frown. "I hope so!" she chirped, not bothering to fight the beginnings of a smile on her face as she glanced down her nose at Quasi. "He does not frighten me, Quasi."

He nodded, though Belle could tell he did not quite seem convinced, for he glanced back over his shoulder again and quickened his pace as best as he could to match Belle's strides as they headed towards their tower.

He wore the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to get this little farce over with, and Belle supposed she could not blame him, though she hoped he would at least allow himself a little enjoyment in the evening and stayed away from the copious amounts of red wine that was sure to be in excessive supply this evening.

For even Belle could not deny as her curiosity finally got the better of her and she risked one glance over her shoulder, back towards where the Prince lingered, there was no mistaking the look of burning animosity in his orbs.

Belle swallowed nervously as she quickly averted Prince Adam's gaze and made to follow Quasi, hoping that if she could just stick close enough, the Prince would leave behind and forget the incident of Belle refusing the Prince's arm. A blatant show of disrespect towards the insolent Prince of these lands and Belle resisted the urge to reach down and take Quasi's hand, knowing full well that doing so would prompt yet again another vicious round of gossiping tongues.

"How do you feel?" Belle heard herself asking, her own face flushed as she could practically feel Quasi lift his head blearily to look at his new wife. "Did you feel comfortable?" Belle was, of course, referring to their kiss.

Quasi made a strangled little noise from the back of his throat, as though not anticipating being asked such a question from a woman who he had previously been led to believe despised him and reviled him as some form of monster.

His face flushed even deeper red still, yet he slowly nodded his head as he looked at her incredulously, as though hardly daring to believe his wife's words.

Belle returned the nod, feeling the heat creep onto her own cheeks as she took another shaking breath to steady her rapidly pounding heart and quell the rolling nerves in her stomach. "Then…that is all that matters, love." She offered him another reassuring smile and this time, she leaned down and put her hand on his shoulder again and gave it a light but firm squeeze. "I am learning, so I hope that…you can be patient with me, I—if we could…go slow?" she asked.

She bit the wall of her cheek and then stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard as she waited for Quasi to say something—anything—in response to her request. What his response to her request would be would determine if she would be able to respect him and perhaps even grow to love him. Belle exhaled in relief as he nodded, feeling her shoulders sag in relief.

"Yes. We will go as slow as you need to, so do not feel rushed, Belle. Besides," he added, a light little smirk forming on his face that Belle found she rather liked, for she could detect no malice in the gesture. "I—I am learning too, and I rather like it this way. If you are comfortable with _this_ , with _me_ , then I am."

But still. Even Belle could not deny that a part of her craved some form of comfort, whether that was to hold his hand or just to sit with him. Anything to seek some form of reassurance that the Prince would not bother her this evening.

She could not shake the feeling that as long as she remained in close proximity to Quasi, that somehow, everything would be okay, and Adam would not bother her on her wedding night. Still. There was no point in trying to deny that Belle, by refusing Prince Adam's arm, had publicly shamed, humiliated the man. Belle swallowed nervously, the intensity of the Prince's staring practically burning that hole into the back of her skull deepening.

She could no more avoid conversing with the Prince than she could the beating of her own heart as it pounded with futility against its cage of bone and cartilage.

The dread she felt at the Prince himself confronting her over what she had done to humiliate him was an invisible shadow demon, sitting heavy on her shoulders, and she could only hear the sharpening of its knives as it whispered evil thoughts of malice into her ear.

She started to sweat and became pale, and then the tremor in her hands began. Her head became a little giddy and her stomach nauseous, suddenly no longer hungry. The dread crept down her spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. Belle could feel her feet on the skin of her neck, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end, descending until she almost felt frozen on the spot. Something was wrong. She could not shake the feeling as if Belle were being watched.

Her stomach felt full of lead, her feet set in stone; her mind worryingly empty as she followed Quasi up to his tower, to the sanctity and tranquility of the familiar loft.

Belle swallowed as her mouth suddenly felt dry as she accidentally met the Prince's gaze and he smirked that infuriatingly little smile at her, so cold and devoid of warmth. The Prince would have had the face of an angel or a saint if his lips would ever break farther apart.

The edge was pushed up as he met Belle's gaze, scrunching his left eye up, making his blue eye appear gray.

Prince Adam's lips parted a little, making it seductive to many women. All but her. Yet the faked smile on the man's face made him appear even more arrogant. The dread crept over her like an icy chill in the winds of winter, numbing her brain.

She could not shake the sense that she was about to pay for humiliating him but a few precious moments ago in the nave, and in her frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought.

It was tonight. There was no avoiding this…

She felt like a cow being herded into a pen for slaughter, only the cow did not know where it was going, and Belle did. Straight into the arms of Death. Belle licked her lips to moisten them, though no moisture came and before she could even fathom, she felt her arm move instinctively of its own accord and grip onto Quasi's, not giving a damn that she had to stoop slightly in order to do it.

_As long as I stay by his side, he wouldn't let him do anything to me…_

But if only she could have known how wrong she was…


	32. To Be Mine

**A/N: I'm starting to really love my version of Quasi, based on David Jakobs' performance in Der Glockner von Notre Dame, though I'm German so I might be slightly biased. Hope you enjoy! :)**

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE **

Belle mutely followed her new husband up the stairwell to their tower loft and upon setting foot on the top level of the mezzanine, the first thing she noticed was it was surprisingly warm and the smell of spiced wine greeted her like an old, long-lost friend. Shadows danced, flickering in the light, playing hide and seek among the lit fire that someone (probably Alice had snuck up here following the ceremony's end if she had to hazard a guess) had lit for the pair of newlyweds.

The fire was her and Quasi's tiny sun for the evening, as was the tête-à-tête. The flames cast long shadows throughout the living section of the tower loft.

The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burned the dry wood. It was good to feel their warmth at last, even if it was only from one direction, Belle thought. The cinders glowed near the cushions, a five-pronged candle was lit on the man's carving table, which had been cleared away.

A slice of grain cake and a tin flagon of what smelled like the spiced wine and a chalice of water rested on the table next to the candle holder, dark as night.

In the corner of the room rested Quasi's sleeping nook, and though she had never once set foot inside, she could see the simple makeshift mattress, blankets, and pillows that her husband (and now her, she supposed) would sleep on at night.

At this, her insides coiled, and she repressed a shiver of anticipated frustration and desire that traveled down her spine, feeling beads of sweat form and start to gather on her temples. Sister Alice had said the act was pleasurable.

Was she ready for this? The love of a good man? She knew deep down in the recesses of her heart that Quasi would never harm her, never betray her trust, or force her to do something that she was not ready or comfortable for or with.

Just this simple thought plastered a quiet vibration that prickled and crawled under Belle's flesh.

She had confided in Alice her worries, about how she had known nothing but abuse at Gaston's hand when she'd been married to him, and the nun who was admittedly something of a former prostitute in her younger years had done her best to assuage the young inventor's daughter's worries of it.

It was said to be so pleasurable that men would pay women for it, hand over their hard-earned gold and silver coins, farthings, and shillings alike, for the 'pit' between a woman's thighs. Belle had no mother figure in her life to discuss with her the nature of these things growing up.

Maurice had done his best, but she had begun to curse her own body the day Gaston Dupont took an interest in her. And now, here she was, married to a man who, although in her own way, she loved, she knew that she had made herself even further an outcast in society, that it was more a marriage of convenience, political pageantry in order to prevent Belle from being cast out onto the streets as an expectant soon-to-be mother in nine months, widowed status notwithstanding.

Her marriage to Notre Dame's sole bell ringer was, no matter what way she spun it, convenient, though she hoped that in time, Quasi would see that Belle genuinely cared for him and loved him.

People had said all throughout her life, especially in the village that she was bright, smart, too smart for her own good, _a beauty but a funny girl_ , they called her. _Beautiful_. Belle furrowed her dark brows into a frown and bit the inside wall of her cheek at that remark. _Beautiful_.

 _Her_?! Lies, vicious, slanderous _lies_ , all of it. If that were not the case, she would not have been forced to wed Gaston then.

Belle's gaze drifted towards that of her new husband, whose back was facing away from her and he had taken a seat on one of the cushions of the tête-à-tête.

His face was not necessarily princely, she observed. Not in the classic way that she enjoyed reading about in her precious books when she immersed herself in the fictional world to escape the harsh reality of her own for that precious while. No.

But Quasi had the build of a man she once imagined embracing, back when she was a stupid girl with stupid dreams about loving a man and being loved in return.

Despite the man's physical attributes, the contusion over his left browbone and the small hump near the man's right shoulder that did not impede his ability to walk normally nor stand up straight at his full height of 5'9 and tower over Belle, it did not change the fact that the cathedral's bell ringer had a handsome face if you were willing to see past the contusion, though she had to admit that the man's best qualities were his thick tuft of coarse red hair that fell to the right side of his face, shielding his eyes from view, and his eyes.

A brilliant cobalt blue, crystalline, but suspicious as he regarded his new wife as Belle moved slowly to join him by his side and sit.

His eyes were like fire trying to be extinguished without a prayer's hope in the world of doing so.

He seemed so innocent and pure, and the poor man practically jumped out of his skin with a misfounded skittishness as her left hand drifted over his and settled there, and she studied the glinting yellow gold of their wedding rings as the light from the ember flames of the fire reflected the material.

"Do you like it, Belle? My…our tower…your…your new home, Belle." His soft, tenor-like voice startled Belle out of her swirl of confusing thoughts which were raging like a screaming vortex in her mind. Belle could not help but to swivel her head slowly to the side and blink owlishly at the cathedral's bell ringer.

She did not know how long Quasi had been staring at her like this, while had seemingly allowed her mind to wander while she stared into the flames of the fire. There was no hint of a hopeful smile on his face. No amusement, no excitement, just a strange sense of trepidation and apprehension for his new wife.

It alarmed Belle if she was being honest with herself. She looked around to the left and right, and bolted from her feet and grabbed the slice of grain cake and the tin flagon of spiced wine and scurried back to her husband's side, cutting the cake in half and pouring Quasi a chalice of wine and some for herself as well.

She nodded mutely, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat and silently handed him the plate with the slice of grain cake. "Good," was all he answered, his voice echoing and warbling slightly, which she thought rather strange. "I—I want you to be happy, Belle." He raised the flagon of wine to his lips and drank.

Quasi rose to stand and wobbled slightly but immediately corrected himself and stood up taller, prouder.

"I…" His voice trailed off and Belle did not even have to follow his gaze to determine where he was looking like his gaze lingered and settled upon his sleeping nook. "I will not force you to…to do anything you don't want to," he confessed, his voice sounding pained as he slammed the chalice of wine down on the carving table, his knuckles bone white with the effort to steady himself as he clutched onto the wooden surface for support to right himself.

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. "Quasi, are you all right?" she asked, but her new husband waved her off instead and slowly turned around to face her.

"What do you think of me, Belle? Please. I…I have to know," he said.

Belle blinked owlishly at the sudden shift in Quasi's mood, shivering slightly at his query, at the unfamiliar harsh and coldness of his words, before she came to the realization that he believed that for whatever reason, that she hated him.

It could not have been further from the truth. Belle pursed her lips into a thin line and strode over to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, intent on making him see the truth, and still, she saw Quasi unmoved, stiff, and rigid.

Though she emanated a tense exhale of relief, her shoulders sagging slightly as she felt his arms come up and encircle hers, his chin resting on the top of her head. At this moment, he found the young woman in his ironclad embrace to be the most beautiful, delectable creature he'd ever had the wonder to behold with his wolfish, wretched sight. The smooth skin of her prominent collarbones was truly delish against his scarred and slightly calloused palms, but he craved it.

Quasi swallowed thickly with a sudden craving for his wife in front of him.

His _wife_. Just even thinking that word felt surreal. Something that he never thought God would see fit to bless him within his miserable, wretched life.

"Beautiful," Quasi heard himself whisper against her hair, his chin resting on top of her head, yearning to speak the words that lingered in his heart.

"Mmm?" Belle inquired, sounding slightly sleepy, still nestled comfortably in the comfort of his embrace.

"You."

"Really?" Her voice sounded muffled, far away, and slightly startled at the honesty of his one-worded response. Belle shifted slightly in his arms, pulling back slightly to study his face, and Quasi was relieved to see a little color had returned to her face.

Quasi nodded mutely, not needing to say a word, smiling gently, and reaching out a careful hand to caress her cheek and tuck a stray strand of her hair back where it belonged. "Yes." The thought and mere sight of her this beautifully confused at his confession, needing validation from him surged a power that began to fill in the confines of his wretched chest and between his legs, one the monster that lay dormant within his chest could not ignore, and he heard himself give a low, guttural growl of wanton restraint and desire. "I…want you, Belle. If you will have me."

And, not giving his new wife a chance to respond, he silently moved towards the woman who held his heart and gently pulled her shoulder forward so that Belle was now facing him. His hands landed on the cloth draped above her shoulder, feeling the smooth silkiness of her sky-blue wedding dress.

She looked almost ethereal, pale skin cut from pearls, the blue fabric almost glowing in the dark, white against a pitch-black as the only source of light came from a beam of moonlight that streamed in through the window from behind a cloud. Quasi frowned, biting down on his tongue hard enough to bleed, doing his best to resist the monster's growling and straining against its iron-wrought restraints in his chest, and he clenched his eyes tightly shut in ire.

This monster's name was Lust. Desire, a wanton ache that swelled as fire deep within the pit of his chest, and Frollo's words rang in his ears.

_You must fight these feelings. Wickedness and lust were what killed your parents, boy._

"Why…why do you love me, Quasi?" Belle whispered desperately, her hands reaching up for his and tracing over the self-inflicted bites and scratches, connecting them all with invisible lines like scattered points on an old map.

She gazed up at Quasi with those hauntingly eerie dark brown eyes, her serene expression forever drenching his memory, and he felt himself drowning then. "How could I not?" Quasi heard himself reply quietly, cutting her cheek in his hand and forcing her head upwards, forcing Belle to meet his hard gaze.

He took the opportunity to study his wife's eyes. Quasi was struck by their coldness, like a stab of ice. Every detail in her iris so clear, so concise.

For his lack of words, Belle was like a piece of art that nobody could understand. And how could God do justice to a masterpiece like Belle that was already, in his eyes, perfect? How?! Belle frowned at the answer he gave and looked away.

Quasi dropped his hand from her cheek, not sure what to do with his hands, though the inner monster within him was growling his displeasure, and he thought for a moment he would hear himself roar in frustration at the lack of skin-to-skin contact, his fingers gave a twitch, his hands urging him to explore every inch. There were many things he loved about the young woman in front of him. He loved the fading sunset behind those brown orbs.

The light that danced through her soft chocolate hair, the sadness from a hard life nestled in the creases of her milky white palms.

Quasi loved all of Belle. Not just the parts that made sense, not just the parts she'd shown him during the months of their partnership and then their relationship. Quasi loved all parts of his wife that he did not yet understand, the parts that weighed on her shoulders, the parts that only Quasi noticed when he stole glances at Belle during the silences that befell them both when he thought she didn't see.

"How could I not like you, Belle?" Quasi inhaled a sharp breath of air and wrapped his arms around her waist, and the softness and gentle touch of his arm against her neck made her back tingle through the material of her gown.

They did not speak, because, in their own way, they were already communicating.

There was so much in Quasi's silence, so much that Quasi just would not say to Belle. Belle could see by his expression there was a lot ruminating through his mind, but if she were to ask him, he would most likely just tell her how her beauty had bewitched him, ensnared him somehow.

But somehow, Belle knew that she would always be safe with Quasi, even if he did keep his secrets. Loving him did not give Belle the right to know every single one of his pains and doubts, to rummage through the wreckage of the man's mind. Some scars were invisible.

She knew he carried his share, as did she. Belle said nothing at first, opting instead to slip her hand into his and stood in silence, just the two of them, connected. Belle moved her head closer to Quasi.

He stood frozen, both from intense fear and exhilaration.

She leaned in, so her forehead rested against his. She closed her eyes and he followed suit, content to just bask in the newfound moment. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "For everything you've done for me, Quasi."

"For what?" he asked, his voice low and husky, and heavy with desire for his wife, she who had stolen his heart before he'd even known that it was gone, and it made them about even. "I've done nothing. I haven't."

Belle scoffed and smiled at him, her soft smile sending his heart reeling against the confines of his chest. "For being _you_." Her voice wavered, exhilarated from the almost unbearable tension between them. She reached up and intertwined their fingers together.

He startled a little at the sudden jolt of warmth that seemed to pass through his body, but he liked the heat she gave off.

"You have done what no one else in this world seemed capable of doing around me. You have accepted me for who I am, Quasi," Belle explained. "Not for who you or anybody else wanted me to be. You don't see…all this and think it's too much for you to handle," she grumbled, gesturing to herself as she tugged on a lock of her hair and pulled a face. "You let me be myself, something not many people allow. So many times, throughout my life so far, I could…never truly be myself around anyone else. Not once have you told me that I was not good enough for you or pretty enough for you. You've never asked me to change how I look."

At her last comment, her voice cracked and broke, and she swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat, looking away.

It broke Quasi's heart, to see Belle this way. It hurt as hell. He shook his head in disbelief gently and caressed her cheek with the pads of his thumb. Quasi hesitated and bit his bottom lip in a fit of angst.

"Of course, I care for you, just as you are, and nothing more. I...do...I... I just…I just want you to be happy, and why…why could you want me? You could have anyone you wanted, and you're here right now with me. A _monster_. An accursed wretch. A curse on society. _Why_?" he whispered into the shell of her ear and was given virtually no time to react as Belle had practically to reach up on her tiptoes in order to gently lean in and kiss his warm lips, surprising Quasi.

She pulled apart first, taking shallow, shaky breaths. She bit her bottom lip in that way she always did whenever she was nervous, but if only Belle knew just how much it drove his mind insane with lust. He drew in a breath and traced the outline of her lips with a single finger that was shaking slightly.

"How could I not?" Belle echoed, a wry little smile on her lips as she stepped back.

He gazed at the woman he was now married to, his glistening cobalt blue eyes fierce yet not with anger or rage, but with something else Belle could not identify, though it was familiar. Quasi's hands moved from her shoulder blades to the top of her shoulders, holding her firmly in place.

"I…I care about you, Belle. With everything that I am, though I know that I am nothing at all." God, how he wanted to say those three magical words, but he could not bring himself to say it to her yet. They carried much weight and intensity and were three precious of words that should not be uttered lightly, without any meaning.

Belle stood there, her eyes widening with shock and surprise, but upon hearing Quasi's words, she instantly rose to Quasi's defense, angry that he viewed himself so very little. "You truly hold such a low opinion of yourself, Quasi? We've been over this. Do not speak of such things! You are far _more_ than most men I know, Phoebus and my own father included. I know what our society thinks of your kind, and they are _wrong_. I aim to change their views on you one day, now that I'm your wife, I hope, if I can, for it's not right, how you're treated," she whispered softly, "but that does not mean that I care for you any less, Quasi," she whispered and bit down on her lip. She stopped moving and twisted her neck to look him square in the eyes.

The Archdeacon and Sister Alice's words resonated within his mind as a young child as the church's caretakers had asked him what he wanted, and all he would have said at the time was acceptance. Of the rest of Parisian society.

But all of those vanished and melted away like snow dying under the first warmth of the sun. In their sleeping nook that he led her to that was nothing but a shadow, Quasi stood close enough for Belle to breathe in his scent of bell polish and pine wood from his carvings.

His arms wrapped around her back and in one gentle pull, she felt her right shoulder become exposed as their skin touched. Belle felt Quasi's hand in the back of her hair, how he lofted the softness as his fingers raked through it. Then his hand moved down her cheekbones to her lips and he kissed her.

Belle hesitantly looked up as he pulled back, and the swirls of mixed emotions she saw within the man's darkening cerulean eyes made her frown.

He knew she didn't love him back, but he couldn't resist. He leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Dear God, he couldn't fight against the thoughts that were going through him. Her very smell was flooding his senses now...

But before she could pull away and head back to bed, and insist he did the same and rest, before she could ponder it further, Quasi yanked Belle to him and covered her mouth with his in a hungry, possessive kiss before she could so much as protest or ask him what he was doing to her.

He broke it off first and pulled back to study her reaction, shooting her a soft smile at how flushed her face was, reaching up a hand to brush her bangs out of her eyes tenderly, his eyes sparkling with a new intensity she'd not seen.

Belle's face was flushed and pink, her lips parted open slightly in shock.

"Did you…did you like it….?"

But her sentence was cut off as Quasi did not give her a chance to finish her thought, as she heard him growl in frustration as his eye twitched in ire. Lust had clouded his mind and Quasi cursed himself when he got like this, she knew it. He caught her head in his hands and kissed her, startling Belle, and nearly knocking all the wind from her lungs. Her hands worked their way around his body, feeling each crevasse of his perfect physique.

At first, their kiss was delicate and gentle.

To her, it felt like she was walking on air. It was magic, the way his lips connected with hers. Her heart was pounding. One hand was buried in her hair, pressing in softly, his other hand briefly skimmed her cheeks and down to her collarbones, leaving a trail of hot sparks in their wake. She shivered. Belle gripped his shoulders as she accidentally bowled him over, laughing as she kissed him again as they fell, fighting her urge to break out into delighted laughter.

To his surprise, he reached out for a chair to steady himself but wound up overturning it, the chair falling to the floor with a loud crash. As they fell, his thigh brushed against her leg through the skirt of her gown, sending a jolt of ecstasy down her spine. She began to understand.

It was turning into something she recognized, though had never experienced it for herself, having only known nothing but suffering at Gaston's hand, though she hoped with Quasi, the experience would be different.

 _I…really do love him_ , Belle thought wildly. Quasi let out a groan as she shifted in his lap and her leg brushed against his thigh. His body was hot and burned against hers as his hands wandered, feeling every crevice. His hands came up, gripping almost painfully tight on her waist.

He kissed her hungrily, in that place of desire to move his hands underneath her skirts of the wedding gown Alice had helped make for her, to feel her smooth skin and its perfect softness. Drunk on her kiss, his only desire in the movement was to feel her, to love her.

Gingerly, she shoved him back, her face flushed. When they broke apart, he pulled back to study her face. Her face was pink, her cheeks high with color, her hair disheveled, and her dark brown eyes were on fire, burning hotter than a thousand suns.

She could hear Quasi's deep loathing sighs as he allowed the baser urges within to take control, knowing by this point, it was futile to resist and try to fight. His mind drifted to thoughts of what Sister Alice had asked him when he was younger, what he wanted. His first answer would have been to be accepted.

But that thought seemed insignificant and it melted like snow under the first light of the sun, as he knew now that the answer was underneath him.

Quasi heard the beast within himself, the demon, the monster, the wretch that he knew himself to be, practically growl in agitation as Belle opened her mouth to say something when he broke apart.

"Shh." He hushed her, before moving his finger away from her lips and leaned down and captured her mouth hungrily. His lips were firm against hers, but their kiss remained soft, gentle, slow. They held it for a few seconds before their lips began to move in perfect sync.

Quasi exhaled through his nose, not wanting to break it off, wanting nothing to bask in the heat that her body gave off, to envelope himself in her heat. His entire body felt as though it had been consumed by the overwhelming feeling of relief, combined with eccentric panic, and lust.

He moved his hand to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, lightly lifting her up off of the bed so he could pull her into him, wanting to feel every drop of warmth, adding more pressure to their lips, deepening the kiss.

 _What do you want?_ Alice's question rang in his eardrums, deafening, and the only sound that followed their words was the sound of ripping cloth rent the air and he watched the sky-blue wedding dress of his wife's gash in his strong hands, as his fingers curled around the piece of clothing, the only barrier between himself and his wife, like claws, as he moved in and captured her lips again.

 _Her_. Shreds of blue flew in parting directions and he felt the monster within start to growl in satisfaction. _I want her_.

 _Just her_.


	33. Your Actions Have Consequences

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO **

Belle blearily opened her eyes as her vision slowly but surely cleared, feeling her heavily-lidded eyes flutter open as she awoke to the frigid cold of their sleeping nook nestled in the corner of the north bell tower's loft on the upper level of the mezzanine. She lay there quietly a moment, keeping her eyes closed, willing her breaths to slow down until the sudden onset wave of nausea passed her as she fought back the urge to vomit.

Given this was her first pregnancy, she had assumed, and rightfully so, that it would not be without its difficulties, but considering she was less than a full month along, this hardly seemed fair at all.

 _It's cruel_ , she thought, keeping her eyes clenched tightly shut as she could practically taste the bile coating the back of her throat. _Cruel and unfair. Cruelly unfair._ The only indications of her heartbeat, her very existence, that she had…somehow not died last night, after spending such a wonderful night of love and passion in her husband's embrace, after falling asleep in the man's strong arms, was the steady rise and fall of her breast and hearing the sound of her own breath.

Her chest strangely felt numb. Curiosity slowly pried open her swollen eyes still heavy and slightly crusty around the edges from sleep, and though her eyes were open, she could not think of why. Her heart pounded, thrumming against its chest erratically, this damned stubborn feeble corded muscle in her chest.

Shock took over and painted confusion on her face passionately. Everything ached, no matter how little she twitched, and the pads of her fingertips traced a teeth mark on her shoulder blade, one that was bluish, showing abrasions there.

Belle couldn't remember it getting there. _Did…did Quasi do this? What…?_

Parts of her skin felt… _sticky_ , especially on her neck and down her navel. Her lungs beckoned and pleaded with her for her, and she inhaled deep to comply with their wishes. Her mind felt empty. Belle squinted, straining into the darkness, breathing rate slowly but surely beginning to steady and she forced herself to sit upright.

Off somewhere to her left, the egg-yolk sun poured through the cracks in the bell tower's rafters and awaited entrance into Belle's eyes the moment she stepped over the threshold that separated her and her husband's sleeping nook from the rest of Quasi's bell tower. For a split second, Belle didn't know who she was or where she was. She made a small noise at the back of her throat that sounded muted as she shivered as a cold gust of wind traveled through their room.

Then she remembered. She was in his— _our_ —she had to correct herself—bedroom, and Belle felt her pupils dilate in the darkness as she propped herself against one of the pillows and collapsed back onto it, her dark hair splaying out on either side of her head like a fan, intertwining her fingers and resting them on her stomach, and burrowed further into the goose feather down blanket, wine in color, that Quasi had somehow found for her this morning, perhaps when he'd woken up to ring for the Lauds and hadn't wanted to disturb her, the only warmth against such frigid cold air, though the moment she nestled back under the blanket, she realized the bed felt surprisingly lighter without her husband's presence, and her dark eyes widened even further and she sat upright in their bed.

Her dark hair cascaded loosely to her shoulders, tousled and in a state of disarray as she desperately clutched the blanket to her nude form, her eyes darting to the left and right while she haphazardly searched for her clothes, still wondering if the experience the two of them had shared last night had simply been a dream.

Belle's sight still wished for the darkness of the night as she sleepily rubbed the dreams away, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand and sat up straighter, resting her head against her pillow as she propped it up against the extra pillows.

Had last night spend in his arms simply been a dream?

Belle furrowed her brows into a frown and made no move to get up at all. "Then…it's a good dream," she whispered as she felt the beginnings of a small smile creeping on her face as she remembered Quasi whispering sweet nothings into the shell of her ear, and though he had been nothing but kind to her, her body felt numb and pained.

His voice was low and soft. It had been dark in their sleeping nook and she couldn't really see him, but she could feel him squirm beneath her as he struggled to make their time spent together last longer. Every little movement, the sound of his breathing rate increasing and slowing down as he felt every twitch to her.

She pressed an elbow against the bedframe and forced herself to sit up straighter. Slowly but surely, Belle was able, and it felt as though a weight had lifted from her eyes and the hazy fog in her mind, and everything was clearer, except for a horrible pounding headache beginning near her frontal temples.

Belle felt her smile widen as she recollected words exchanged last night.

" _Convince me to stay, Quasi," she remembered whispering. "Like you wish for me to stay_ ," she begged, lips parted slightly as she leaned down to whisper it into his ear. " _Plead for me to stay here with you as your wife. Tell me…that you want me…I want you to have me…and keep me_ ," Belle had whispered to him.

" _Please_." It was the use of the word please that tumbled from her lips that had caused a sudden shift in her new husband last night, how at first, the growl that had erupted from deep within his chest had momentarily frightened her, though, in that groan, Belle could hear the hoarseness and desire in his tones, his free hand not gripping onto her waist for support had slipped underneath her.

" _Trust me when I tell you that I…I won't…hurt you, Belle…_ " he urged, repressing another groan, closing his eyes as he felt Belle jerk her hips away with a muffled sound that might have been a noise of pleasure before she fell silent. " _Show me_." He'd encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down alongside her legs. " _How—how you want it_ ," he'd begged, hearing the desperation in his voice. " _Together_ ," Quasi whispered as her lips lowered and captured his gently. He'd groaned as he nestled in the crook of her neck, clenching his eyes tightly shut, and allowing the monster within him, this demonic entity branded Lust to take complete and utter control. If this was sin, to lay with his wife on their wedding night, in the eyes of God, then so be it.

In Quasi's mind, he was already damned, so to hell with what _God_ wanted. Nothing could stop something so…exhilarating, so passionate, loving. _Nothing_.

When the goose feather down blanket that had covered her chest began to unravel as she let the cloth drop to the floor as she sat on the edge of the bed, throwing her legs over the edge, letting out a hiss as her bare feet touched the frigid wooden floorboards, the throbbing and numbness quickly dispersed then.

Belle stared, eyes widened, as she stared at an ugly bruise just above her left wrist, something that resembled a gripped hand, for these were his markings.

 _My husband doesn't seem to know his own strength, it would seem_ , she marveled, biting the inside wall of her cheek. Belle knew Quasi had not meant to hurt her on purpose. She knew last night it had been hard for him to resist.

She remembered feeling his strong hands come up to grip painfully tight on her waist with each push, each little movement she made. Belle hadn't stopped.

" _This is what you've been missing_ ," Belle had remembered whispering to her husband. " _Feel me. Have me and keep me, husband. Every drop…every pulse…all of it. Love me…_ " She had heard her husband roar as he'd never had in her company at her words, pleasure waves surging through their bodies, searing them, branding them, hotter than the hot lead he used to fix the brass bells, breaking them and rocking them to their cores.

Her nostrils had flared, and Belle could smell the want emanating off her husband in waves, and she knew, either way, he wanted this. Wanted her. Belle hurled her head back, eyes closed, and let out a sweet moan, feeling his excitement seep and extend into her very soul.

Belle had not stopped, per her husband's pleading requests. She had done as Quasi had asked of her and she was patient with him and gentle with him as she had hoped that when she had been married to Gaston, he would have been with her. Though the walls of their sleeping nook were made of strong, durable stone slab, they still attempted to finish as quietly as they could, given how late it was.

Her mind felt as though it reeled, long after the experience the two of them shared within each other's arms had ended last night. " _Love me, husband_?"

She remembered asking, a soft smile forming as Belle nestled in his arms. And she could recall Quasi's response, for how could she not? " _Always, Belle_."

And following his answer, a gentle kiss, first on her lips and then her forehead, and they had fallen asleep. But Belle had expected, hoped was more accurate, that he would be here by her side when she woke up, and the fact that he was not right here by her side currently, greatly disturbed her, though she quickly shoved that thought out of her mind.

 _Your husband has Lauds, Masses to ring for, and other duties to perform. He stays busy, and as his wife and soon-to-be-mother of your child, you will be too. He cannot always be by your side every second of every day. Get used to it_. Belle furrowed her brows into a frown and glanced wildly about the room for her smallclothes and gown, which she had remembered, her wedding dress hadn't exactly survived the night when he'd practically ripped it to shreds in an effort to help her undo the lacings in back.

She sighed as she finally spotted a gown that she could not remember laying out last night, and briefly, she wondered who in the seven hells had laid it out.

Wrapping the blanket around her form to preserve her modesty, she rose, wincing at the soreness around her breasts and everywhere else as she padded barefoot and silent over towards the chair, where the dress was neatly draped over the back of the chair and picked up the garment with her thumbs and forefingers.

A simple dark blue velvet gown with long flared tow sleeves and a dark cape lined with what appeared to be wolf fur near the hood's lining. A thing of beauty, truly gorgeous, and not at all one she recognized. Was this a wedding gift, maybe?

But if it _was_ , from whom? Belle's frown deepened as she dressed quickly and shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself as she set off in search of her husband or any of the other caretakers, Sister Alice, or Father Darius, who could tell her where Quasi was. Normally, given sound in both bell towers traveled, Belle surmised that she would have heard her husband high above, in the rafters.

However, this did not appear to be the case and she began to grow nervous, though thinking that a walk might do her some good to stretch her legs, get some fresh air, and as Belle started to head down the stairwell and out of the cathedral towards the marketplace, hoping to visit the apple vendor and bakery if there was time enough this morning before helping Alice. (she'd developed an unusual appetite for apples and lemon cakes over the last few weeks since learning she was going to be a mother. Alice had patiently informed her such cravings were normal.) Though before she did, there was one place she had not yet looked.

Belle felt a soft smile form at the edges of her lips as she found Quasi seated out on the balcony floor, though in actuality, she supposed she could call whatever position he had adopted more of a kneel, and her first impression of her husband was that she thought he looked as though someone about to swear allegiance, loyalty to a noble, to their King, for his right knee was bent as he knelt on the balcony's terrace cold stone floor, his gloved hands curled around the railing of the balcony. He looked contemplative, lost in thought, more peaceful than she'd seen him since her first meeting the man all those months ago.

If she strained to listen, he was conversing in low murmuring whispers, in hushed tones, towards figures of stone, grotesque looking gargoyles. Belle scrunched her nose in disgust at the hideousness of the stone statues and let out a tired sigh.

"Your knees must be killing you, Quasi. Why do you sit like this? You ran off! Why did you leave? I thought that…maybe you had…run away from me," Belle confessed shyly before a light pink blush speckled along her cheeks and she glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep her hands warm.

Her husband startled slightly at the sound of her soft voice wafting through the cold December air, but when he saw a smile threatening to escape her faux pout as she stuck out her bottom lip in a pout and was biting down on it in a slightly flirtatious manner, Quasi allowed himself to relax and returned her smile.

"I am sorry, Belle," he murmured lowly, reaching for her hand with one of his gloved ones and bringing her white-boned knuckles to his lips for a gentle but chaste kiss. "Matins and Lauds required me to get up, and I did not want to wake you. I can see now that I…might have failed in that regard, wife," he joked.

"It is all right," she responded immediately without even having to think of an apt response as one automatically came to her mind. "You were lucky that I did not hear the bells this morning because…I was very tired," she teased coyly.

Belle stifled her smile and bit the inside wall of her cheek, running her tongue along the wall of her upper teeth as she practically watched the heat growing in her husband's cheeks. All of his insecurities and doubts were writ large across his face and there was nowhere to hide, especially not from his new wife.

As his anxieties mounted on his face, they became a circle, though Belle thought it was rather cute, though after a minute of this, decided to put Quasi out of his misery by closing off the gap of space between the two of them and holding out her arms outstretched so she could help her husband to his feet.

The moment Belle leaned forward, Quasi felt his heart thrum against his chest and his pulse start to race.

That one damned stubborn lock of his coarse ginger hair tumbled in front of his one good eye, resting just in front of his cheek, but with one swift slide of Belle's thumb, his wife brushed it swiftly out of her way. Looking into Belle's darkened chocolate eyes, he saw nothing but deep umber brown, pools that displayed her soul. Her lips touched his cheek, tinged blue slightly from the cold, but to him, Belle felt warm, oh, so warm. On fire.

Time stopped. It felt as though his heart came to a halt. His breaths hitched and caught in his throat. She reached up a hand and interlocked her fingers with his and gave his left hand a gentle squeeze, lifting it slightly so she could study the elegant yellow gold wedding ring he wore proudly on his left hand in the rays of the sun.

As the soft skin of her mouth left the side of the bell ringer's face, the exact spot where they had come into contact burned and tingled like nothing he had ever felt before. A hot blazing fire pulsated through his veins, re-igniting the familiar feelings of passion and love he had been fortunate enough to experience last night, though he quickly tamped down the urge, as he had work to do this morn, though he supposed, later tonight, if they were both of the same moods…

 _Maybe_. A small grin crept onto the bell ringer's face and his cheeks painted themselves rose red, and he knew it had nothing to do at all with the bitter cold.

She pulled away, but their eyes locked and met each other's gazes, intense, having a private conversation of their own.

All her kiss left as her lips pressed against the skin of his cheek was a little wet mark; a shallow pool of saliva on Quasi's cheek, but he didn't give a damn. He felt an incredible fiery warmth spread throughout his limbs, his new barrier along with his thick linen undershirt and green woolen tunic serving as a barrier against the bitter Parisian winds of winter, and his mind felt a pleasant buzz that he knew had nothing to do with the wine he'd drank last night to quell his nerves.

Every good thing seemed possible, as long as he was around Belle. Likely.

And then Quasi knew he'd found what he had been looking for all his life, for someone to show him what it meant to be happy from the inside out, so his smile could be true, genuine, and not a façade, not the mask he wore for others.

"I did not mean to make fun," Belle reassured Quasi softly. "It is just that…" Her voice trailed off as she struggled to formulate in her mind exactly what it was that she wanted to say to her new husband. "That all throughout my…first marriage," she began to explain cautiously, feeling the heat of her own creep to her cheeks, "I knew nothing but abuse. Rape at Gaston Dupont's hand every single night. How, when it was over, I wished for someone to just kill me and end my torment, to plunge a dagger straight into my chest so that it would pierce my heart and I would not have to lay with that boorish fiend ever again," she further elaborated, growling her confession almost through gritted teeth as she clenched her eyes tightly shut and purposefully ignored Quasimodo's pained and horrified gaze as his brows knitted together in confusion. "But last night, I…did not think myself ever capable of loving another, not after being married to _him_. And…"

Her resolve faltered a little, as did her voice at hearing Quasi's audible gasp of surprise, though she forced herself to continue. Her new husband needed to hear her words so that he would be reassured of her love and affection for him.

"But last night…you proved to me that it was _not_ true, what I thought. I did not think that I would ever find someone who I wanted to be with, in…that way," she continued, her own blush deepening, though she made no move to relinquish her surprisingly tight, ironclad grip on Quasi's gloved clad hand. "But I am glad that I…got to experience it with you, my love," she whispered softly.

Belle felt her scowl deepen as still, the bell ringer would not meet her gaze, though she decided she was not having it and cupped his chin in her hand and tilted his head upwards, forcing her husband to meet her piercing, hardened stare.

"I am...glad of it too. I did not think it would ever...happen to me," he whispered. Quasi furrowed his brows in a frown as he noticed how pale Belle was looking. "Here," he murmured quietly after spending a few moments in silence, turning away from her for a moment, and with his back to her, Belle could not see what it was that he was doing or procuring for her, though she did not bother to stifle her smile as she recognized her favorite tea mug, chipped but still beautiful, clutched into his hands. "You will freeze if you stay out here much longer. Winters up in our tower will get cold. Alice brought it up for you less than five minutes ago. It's still hot."

Belle nodded mutely and brought the rim of the mug to her lips and drank. It tasted strangely of mint as it dissolved in her mouth as she swallowed heavily.

She waited to finish what was on her mind until she had finished her drink, setting down the mug delicately on the tin tray that Sister Alice had brought up.

"Thank you. But do not try to change the subject, Quasi. I was talking about my…feelings for you. I would not have married you if I did not care for and love you. It is the truth. I'm glad that we married last night and I do not regret marrying you. My… _our_ …baby," she corrected, inwardly cursing herself for still thinking of the unborn child growing within her belly as Gaston's, "could not be in better hands with you as its father, and I could not ask for a better husband to share in life's joys with by my side."

Her words seemed enough, as slowly Quasi lifted his gaze to meet hers, and though the faint blush never left his cheeks, her words had seemed to comfort him and give him some semblance of peace, however fleeting.

"I'm glad too, Belle," he said quietly, shifting slightly and taking both of her hands in his, kissing her knuckles once again, and did not protest as Belle leaned in and kissed his surprisingly warm lips, allowing the heat he gave off to send that familiar spiral of warmth that she missed this morning all throughout her system.

She could only hope that the next time he came to bed with her again was not too far off in the distant future, though almost at the exact moment her brain had that thought, a blast of nausea made her skin crawl and shiver beneath her gown and cloak, and left a horrible ringing on her eardrums as she broke it off.

Quasimodo said something to her, but his voice was muffled, faint, and her brows twitched in confusion as she looked at her husband. He must have sensed the sudden shift in Belle's physical condition, as beads of sweat glistened on her brow. _Something's wrong with her, Quasi_ , the gargoyles seemed to silently communicate with her. Or was that one of the saints? He couldn't tell anymore.

 _She shouldn't be this pale, should she? She looks…ill. Sick! What if it's the baby?_ Belle's face was set in a grim and shocked expression, her lips a pursed straight line that was set in neither a smile nor a frown, her already pale skin turning a shade paler, making her dark chocolate curls and a light smattering of freckles along her nose stand out violently.

An icy cold chill ran down her spine for reasons she could not explain as she felt her blood pressure positively spike, though whether it was from her morning sickness surrounding her pregnancy incident or the bitterly cold wind, she didn't know. She was breathing heavily, as though forcing gasps of air to return to her.

"Quasi," Belle breathed, still sounding very much out of breath. "I…" Realizing how awkward this all was and trying hard to ignore how it felt as though someone had just doused her in ice water as a cold chill traveled down her spine. She felt dizzy. So very _dizzy_ …

Belle swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat and blinked owlishly as Quasi, who had given her a rough, but firm shake of her shoulders to attempt to bring her back to reality. "Belle? Are you feeling unwell? Are you sick?" Her husband was saying to her, his voice fraught with worry. His brows were knitted together in concern. No doubt he'd seen how pale she was looking.

"I—I'm sorry," she offered quietly, lowering her voice, and dipping her head, shooting out an arm and felt her fingers curl over Quasi's bicep for support. "I—I did not mean to frighten you. I just…I didn't…I—I'm _fine_ ," she managed to gasp out, biting the inside wall of her cheek. But she _wasn't_.

Ah, but God, she wasn't fine! She felt as though she were burning up.

To see such torment and anguish ridden on her husband's mostly handsome face, over her well-being as he wondered why she couldn't breathe, the likes of which she'd thought and hoped she would never see, least of all not from a man like Quasi, who was always so calm and composed. So dignified.

It unnerved her. It _frightened_ her, to see Quasi like this. The ground beneath her feet as Belle helped her to her feet felt unsteady, and she stumbled and would have fallen had Quasi not been clutching her arm. His ironclad grip was sure to leave yet another bruise, more that she did not want, and it hurt, sending a swell of pain spiraling through her arm, but she ignored it and blearily had to force her clouded mind to remind herself that his strength sometimes manifested whenever he was anxious or nervous and that he did not mean to hurt her like this.

Belle raised a shaking hand to her brow, feeling the sheen of sweat that had gathered as beads on her browbone, beginning their descent down her temple.

Something was _definitely_ wrong with her. Why did she feel so _hot_?!

"Belle—" Belle could see Quasimodo's lips move but couldn't hear his voice. All she heard was a horrible, fatigued ringing on her ears, and black spots danced in the front of her vision. She furrowed her brows into a frown and clenched her eyes tightly shut, hating the wracking waves of nausea that surged into her system. She let out a shuddering breath as she heard Quasimodo's voice, laced with concern, speaking her name.

"Belle?" His voice was tight and taut with worry.

The young woman saw his lips move but could not hear his succulent voice. The spots dancing in front of her vision currently threatened to blind her, and her knees crumpled beneath her and gave out before Belle could think of stopping her fall, and she would have fallen if the bell ringer didn't already have her arm draped over his shoulder and was helping support her weight by walking to the stairwell at the edge of his loft.

Her breathing came in fast and hard. But Good Heaven! _God_! She couldn't get a good breath in. Why couldn't she breathe?! The last thing she focused on and her fading vision before the darkness consumed her sight completely was Quasi's mostly handsome face, snapping his gloved fingers in front of her face, speaking in low tones. Though what he was saying to her remained a mystery. Then she fell into a deep sleep.

"Belle? Love?" Quasi watched in dawning horror as his love's gray eyes flickered and then close. Her breathing, which had been coming in such rapid gasps, slowed to an almost barely noticeable pace, and her ashen face paled even lighter, rendering her almost pallid, giving her the look of the walking dead, a corpse. "I—I don't know what's happening to you. No, no, stay awake, love. I need you to…I need you to stay _awake_ , Belle."

His voice cracked as the words tumbled from his lips in a steady stream of rushed, panicked thoughts. Quasi wanted nothing more than to speak comforts to ease…whatever was happening to her. Why did she pass out? Was she sick? Was there something wrong with their baby?

Yet nothing but panicked breaths were coming to him as he struggled to cover the distance between the bell tower loft and the downstairs.

Quasi was careful to be gentle as he supported most of her weight, though compared to times past in helping Darius to his quarters when he'd indulged in too much wine and had to sleep his hangovers off, Belle weighed practically next to nothing, but the last thing he wanted was to further exacerbate whatever was happening to the woman that he loved. More suffering.

And then, as though a light had ignited in his eyes, something dawned upon him. Something that he had nearly forgotten and damned himself for this.

He could help her better here. Father Darius had, in the last few months during Belle's claim to sanctuary here, had become quite close with the young woman, and carried an extensive knowledge of medicines and ailments from his prior life as a soldier, helping tend the wounded and dead during the aftermath on the fields of battle. Quasi pushed a few locks of her hair to feel her forehead.

 _She's burning up, Quasimodo_ , one of the saints spoke to him. _She needs Darius's care, or she might not make it. Leave her here. Go find him_.

With a slightly shaking hand, he brushed back her hair over her shoulders and gingerly lifted her in his arms and carried her back to their sleeping nook and laid her as gently as he could on the makeshift mattress and covered her violently shivering, sweating form with the goose feather blanket.

He leaned down slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. "I'm going to go fetch you help. Darius will know what to do for you. He'll…he'll save you, Belle. I—I won't let anything happen to you, I promise," he croaked.

His words were as wind as he kissed her again and darted out of their sleeping nook before Belle could so much as part her lips and plead with her husband not to leave her, and soon she was left alone in silence. Her vision blurred and everything in their bedroom seemed to revolve in a dizzying way.

Her forehead was sheening with the throng of perspiration from a developing fever. A shadow danced along the far right wall of the room, and Belle swore she could have seen a figure moved, though it remained shrouded in darkness.

Belle furrowed her brows as she could have sworn she made out a pair of cobalt blue pinpricks, a tall shadow resting against the right wall.

Eyes that burned as bright and hot as midnight torches, though with none of the warmth. At first, she thought perhaps Quasi had come back in something of record time for the man, but now as she looked into the deep pools of blue in this Stranger's eyes, Belle began to grow nervous, given that the only emotion she could read in this man's eyes was that of disdain and dislike, a hatred, even. A hatred for _her_ , which Belle felt she was most undeserving of.

She had done nothing wrong to this he-stranger who had somehow managed to find his way up into Quasi's bell tower and into their bedroom.

Or… _had_ she offended this man? Had she wronged him in some way?

What little she could see of the Stranger's face; she was not able to discern any part that was recognizable. Belle swallowed nervously, knitting her brows together in confusion and felt one arch in the intruder's general direction as she bluntly refused to avert her gaze from his eyes, nor he, it would seem, from hers.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?" she demanded, hating hearing the crack and dip in her tone. There was something in the man's blue eyes, now darkened to an almost cerulean hue, that Belle could not quite identify. Something that in her mind strangely resembled hatred, and worse…a frustrated sort of tense desire. For _her_. Belle gulped, blinking rapidly as the man continued to shroud himself in shadow. She did not know how to react, and she could not seem to find her voice.

"To talk, little dove. Nothing more and nothing less than that, Lady Belle. _Alone_ ," emphasized the man's voice, and Belle sharply inhaled a breath of warm spring air that wafted in through the open double doors of the terrace as a shaft of light momentarily illuminated the spot where the Stranger stood, and Belle felt her blood turn to ice and her bare feet felt rooted to the floor.

" _You_ ," she growled through gritted teeth, baring her canines. "What are you doing here? If you're here to punish me for the refusal of your arm last night…well." She tasted the acidic bitter bile rising from the depths of her stomach, creeping its way up through her throat and settling on her tongue.

She thought she might vomit as horrible visions of whatever fate the Prince had planned for her dance in the forefront of her mind, refusing to part from her conscience, but she fought back the urge to be sick and swallowed past the swelling throat lump.

"Get _out_ of our bedroom, Your Highness," Belle snarled, hearing her voice shake slightly as the strength was slowly sapped from her body as well as her voice as the fever consumed. "You seem _lost_. Perhaps I can help you find your way. The door is right there, show yourself out and I will not tell my husband that you were here," she snapped, jerking her head towards the front entrance, "were I you, I would leave while you still can, Highness. You want me to beg? I won't. But I will say that I…I am sorry if I…offended you. What do I have to do to prove it to you so that you will leave me _alone_ …" Belle croaked hoarsely.

But her voice trailed off as the handsome blond-haired Prince stepped from off the wall and into the dim light of their sleeping nook, the only source of light emanating from a single lit candle on a nearby small wooden table that Quasi had lit after bringing her here. His lips curled upward into a twisted sneer.

" _Die_." It was all he answered, with arms folded across his burly chest.

"Oh, _very_ clever, Prince. Eat any good books lately?" she snarled, baring her teeth. She felt a tremor of fear jolt down her spine as he neared her form.

"What do you think of me, Belle?" Prince Adam asked, his cobalt orbs glowering at her, merely pinpricks in the dim light of her and Quasi's bedroom.

Belle shivered at his query, not wishing to answer the nobleman truthfully, and yet, despite her intentions to contain her honesty, she could not.

"A Beast, my Prince. A monster. _Cruel_." Belle drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she saw the Prince momentarily frozen to his spot, unmoving, and after which, he eased his hands out of his black riding gloves.

"Then perhaps, my little dove," the Prince spoke in a low graveling voice as he rolled his neck to crack it. "I could be crueler to you still, my princess."

Belle felt her insides curdle like sour milk as her mind processed the Prince's words and she felt her lips part open slightly to scream for help. For Quasi, Father Darius, Alice, any one of them to immediately come and save her.

 _No. Please. No…_ She felt the Prince's strong-arm circle almost possessively around her small waist and she felt herself being lifted off the mattress, her head resting against his chest. Belle, in her fevered state of mind, could not recall Prince Adam moving to stand from the edge of the wall towards her, and she abhorred the silence with which the nobleman moved. A snake in the night.

"G—get off of me. Let me _go_ …. ngh, no, don't. Please. Don't." Belle weakly protested and shoved him backward in an attempt to get the man to relinquish his grip on her waist. She shoved his burly chest, she was sure, he was strong and stubborn, she was sure, and the Prince had not budged from his stance.

But her efforts were all for naught as Prince Adam's grip continued to tighten and she felt herself being jostled in his arms and carried down the stairs.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and stood on end. Her tongue felt thick and when she tried to plead with France's Prince to let her go, it was like there was a gag on her mouth and her tongue refused her words' release.

"Shush." Belle felt his hot, earing breath on her earlobe as he lifted her slightly in his arms to distribute her weight better evenly. She did not understand.

"Have I…poisoned," Belle whispered weakly, recollecting the tea she'd drank only but ten minutes ago, and almost not immediately after, she started feeling ill. She gave another feeble push against the man's chest, but the Prince was not having it as one hand closed around the back of her head and he pressed the side of her face into his left shoulder, and he was speaking in low murmurs.

It sounded like the other voice belonged to that of Father Darius or perhaps the Archdeacon, but in her groggy stupor, she could not be certain.

How he remained calm over this, it made Belle feel even sicker, and as she weakly opened her eyes, she could see the Archdeacon and her husband nodding. And if she strained her eardrums to listen, she could faintly make out some of what the Prince was saying.

"…needs better care. She's been poisoned. Your nuns and maester cannot care for her here. I will take her, Your Grace. I have some of the best healers and Maesters that Paris could ever ask for, sir. Her…husband may come too if he wishes, though he is not sitting in my carriage. He will walk behind Monsieur Lumiere and one of my personal guards, sir."

Oh, she _knew_ it. Poison, poison, the Prince had poisoned her. The tea. That minty taste. But Alice, oh, sweet Alice could not have done this to her.

Perhaps the Prince had found a way to slip poison into her tea. Belle crinkled her nose as she felt an awful hallowing on the bridge of her nose and a thick, sticky liquid that spilled at a snail's pace out of her right nostril. She lacked the strength to reach up a hand and wipe it off with the sleeve of her new gone, but she need not see it to know that she was suffering from a vicious nosebleed.

 _Damn you. Curse you to the seven hells, Prince. Beast_.

Belle was sure to die. The Prince had somehow found a way to enact revenge on her rejections, her spurning's of his 'feelings' towards her, and thought it sufficient to murder her. Prince Adam was moving her, rooting her away from her new home, her husband. Her safe sanctuary. The church would not be able to protect the moment she was forcefully removed from inside these precious stone walls. No.

He was killing her. _Murdering_ her. She was dying. _I—I'm dying…_ When it occurred to Belle that she was slowly passing out of this physical realm and into the next, it almost sent her mind insane and she felt tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. She wished for Quasi to hold her, to tell her it was all right.

Belle felt a strong hand come down into a fist on the right side of her face. Pain erupted from the point of impact. Her eyesight blurred, and her only thoughts were of Quasi. What this damned vicious bastard of a Prince would do to her husband. _And to you, if you survive. To your baby_ , her mind offered.

Everything became fuzzy, and the Prince and Archdeacon's voices intermingled with the sweet, succulent sound of her husband's soft tenor-like voice laced to the brim with worry sounded muffled and distorted to poor Belle.

And then Belle saw nothing at all and heard nothing at all, except for a strange, horrible unceasing ringing in her eardrums. Her consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a thick, horrible static, a fuzziness.

Throughout the inky space of blackness, she felt her mind diving for that darkness, and the temporary sanctuary of sweet, sweet relief where she felt no nausea or pain. Her heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in her ears, alongside fading whimpers, pleas for help.

Belle could have sworn she called Quasi's name a few times before she felt the strength in her head leave her completely as it lolled back against the crook of the Prince's elbow, and a cold gush of winter air engulfed her completely, and she felt a stab of terror prick at her heart.

She was _outside_. Not safe anymore. Notre Dame and her caretakers could no longer protect her.

Belle blinked, feebly trying to fight against the waves of darkness. Belle weakly raised a hand and shoved the vicious Prince again, hard, though it did her little good. Her breathing became laced with panic and coming to her in short spurts as her hazy vision caught the sight of a large black carriage.

 _No. Please, no. Not this…_ Belle struggled one last time to plead with Paris's Prince, her tongue still feeling as though it were gagged, thick, and something slimy coated the back of her throat, and when she attempted to plead with Prince Adam to say something—anything—to plead with the Prince if that was what the bastard wanted, to let her and her husband go, she was not able, and she cursed herself for this failure.

"Hush." The Prince's voice was flat and emotionless.

Belle shivered and would have screamed, but she felt something cold and hard that felt like the hilt of a sword strike at the back of her skull, and the feeling in her body slowly drained away until all was black.

 _I go now…_ A lone tear slipped from Belle's eye, peaceful and eerily somber. She was almost… _smiling_. The last thing she saw before she faded completely was the sweet vision of her husband's concerned face looking at her.

And Belle swore she saw Quasi smile.


	34. Till Death Do Us Part

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE **

Quasi cursed under his breath, not bothering to mind his language now that he was well and officially off of Holy Ground, though there was a small part of him that was grateful Darius wasn't with him to chastise him for his choice of words.

The woods that Ser Frederic de Marten was leading him through was growing darker by the minute, and the wretched carriage of the Prince's that Belle had been hoisted off in without her consent to receive treatment for her ailment had long since fled from his and Lieutenant Frederic's line of sight an hour ago.

The bitter Parisian cold was absolutely hostile as it crept its way through the layers of his clothing that coated his body, his only defense against such a chill.

When the wind would pick up and blow, it was so crisp that his very skin hurt.

God, but this was _worse_ than Hell, and he lived in his own personal hell every day. Quasimodo calmed his vicious snarls, the result of his indignation at being denied the opportunity to ride in the Prince's carriage alongside his dying wife. He clenched his jaw shut tight and shut his eyes to release some of the tension.

Notre Dame's bell ringer thought he was getting used to the dryness of his mouth and the continuously swallowing of nothing, but now, as he was forced to trudge through the woods on the outskirts of Paris that supposedly led towards this bastard's estate, where Belle was being held against her will to receive treatment for somehow being poisoned if he was to believe the rumors, now, there was the slime of something thick and the metallic taste of iron between his tongue and palate.

Quasi stifled the almost animalistic growl that threatened escape from the confines of his chest and turned his head sharply to the side and spat the blood that had filled his taste buds and lingered on his tongue, all the while his body shivered underneath his long-sleeved linen undershirt and thick woolen green tunic, and overtop that a dark blue cape.

This was the second time in his life that he wished he would have just been _killed_.

The first following Esmeralda's death, Quasi had initially believed there was no greater pain than following his friend's death, but this?

Oh, _no_. It hurt as hell. _I'll kill that Prince if he's poisoned Belle. I'll kill him…kill them all…they can't keep me away from her_. _Kill them all. I don't care what happens to me. My soul is already damned. An 'almost-made' has no place in Heaven. I will gladly take his own life if it means Belle is safe with me…_

Notre Dame's bell ringer felt his jaw clench tightly shut and lock up, tighter than rigor mortis, and his teeth dug on the wall of his mouth and he ran his tongue along the top wall of his teeth. And there, the gloved hand that clutched onto a tree branch as he had paused for a moment to draw in a breath of frigid winter air formed into a white-boned fist and he smashed it against the limb, ripping the bough clean off.

Quasimodo almost swallowed his tongue as he quelled the urge to roar like an enraged dragon, a few hot tears escaping his eyes. Damned wretched salty liquid. Though he did not let himself whimper. He would _die_ before he'd ever hear himself sob.

Constant years of abuse at the Judge's hand had hardened his heart. His wife was the one who needed him to be strong now, and he couldn't. The fact that the Prince and his people were not allowing him to ride with her was torture. This was ten times _worse_.

The ambiguity of not knowing the state of her physical or mental condition was almost torture for him. Quasi felt lost as he and the strange personal guard of the vicious bastard Prince who had quite literally carted off his wife in an enormous black carriage that closely resembled the very same one that Maître Frollo tended to ride in, towards the Prince's castle, which, if he was to believe the tall, dark-haired lieutenant, Ser Frederic de Marten, Captain Phoebus's second-in-command.

Though why _he_ was the one chosen to escort him towards the Prince's castle, the bell ringer had not the faintest idea. He did not question it, however, as his mind ruminated over thoughts of his wife, and how it hurt like hell that he was not currently by her side. He wanted his face to be the first thing Belle saw when she awoke.

_If she wakes up at all_ , the snakelike voice chimed up unhelpfully from the dark recesses of his own mind, in a voice that sounded too much like Master Frollo for his own comfort. _What if she dies and you aren't there to hold her hand? What if something happens to her baby and she loses it? And you aren't there? A truly fine husband you are, you accursed little wretch, you vicious bastard._

What if he was not by her side when she passed? What then? He would have failed her. Oh, a _fine_ husband he was! He could not even protect her from _this_.

These self-deprecating thoughts spiraled in his bloodstream and spread like a drop of fever. Adrenaline flooded his system as he silently allowed Frederic to lead him through the wood. The soldier was in the middle of attempting to make conversation, though the effort had proved to be in vain and wrong when Frederic started asking after Belle.

"She's really quite a pretty little thing, isn't she? Your wife." Frederic called out interestedly, not bothering to glance back over his shoulder, and he really ought to have, for Captain Phoebus's lieutenant would have otherwise seen the dawning look of outrage in Quasimodo's eyes. "T'is truly a pity that she was forced to marry _you_ , _wretch_ , and pregnant with a baby that _isn't_ yours, if the rumors of the strange girl are true, regardless, Belle could have done so much better as a disgraced noblewoman," he sighed, almost sounding disappointed. "Do you think she'll be all right? Or do you think she'll be dead by the time you arrive? Is it true that her husband took her for himself the night you murdered him and forced you to watch?" Frederic snapped meanly, no warmth at all in the man's condescending tone.

At the handsome soldier's words which had goaded him even further past the last vestiges of his temper, which were already adrift in the sheltered harbor of his patience, Quasi felt the familiar hot-spark of anger, hotter than the molten lava he used to fix the bells' cracks back at the cathedral with, ignite and spark in his veins, and in three rapid steps, Notre Dame's bell ringer had closed off the gap of space between himself and the dark-haired lieutenant of Captain de Chateaupers and let out a vicious snarl of frustration. His gloved hand curled around the pale column of the lieutenant's throat and he squeezed, just tightly enough to begin to restrict air to the man's passageways, but not enough (regretfully, secretly, in Quasi's mind) to kill him.

" _One_. _More_. _Sound_ ," he warned threateningly, whisper hissing it roughly into the shell of the man's ear as he leaned forward. "And I'll snap your neck, de Marten," Quasimodo snarled, hating hearing the crack and dip in his otherwise cold and listless tone, and he flinched inwardly, though he shook off the feeling.

He could tell Frederic de Marten was practically biting off his tongue to prevent the rise of bile on his throat as the sinister tone of the bell ringer's normally kind and tenor-like soft tones had shifted, practically tossed his stomach in cramps.

Frederic's eyebrow twitched and he could not conceal the sheen of terror that formed on his browbone as beads of sweat. "I—I meant no offense, mon—"

But the handsome dark-haired soldier caught himself as he had been about to foolishly utter the word 'monster' in the accursed creature's presence.

The bell ringer felt ventilated at most, as the sweat glistened on his browbone and his temples that evaporated the second Frederic turned his back on him, and balled his gloved hands into fists and raked his fingers through his thick tuft of wild ginger hair, not caring that it stuck up in tufts every which way.

He saw how Frederic de Marten eyed Belle in the cathedral during Mass. She had even confided in him prior to their marriage how the soldier made her relatively uneasy, his piercing stare always feeling to her as though it burned a hole in the back of her head, his inquisitive, sharp green eyes following her backside.

Frederic de Marten had… _intentions_ , towards _his_ wife, and Quasi felt his mind flare like wildfire, and he swallowed nervously, feeling like his throat was on fire and he was suddenly parched. But it wasn't water that he necessarily wanted.

Oh, _no_. What he longed for, alongside the urge to be by his wife's side, was sweet, blissful retribution towards Frederic's uncouth behavior towards his Belle.

Frederic de Marten did not just think highly of Quasi's wife, the redhaired bell ringer couldn't help but hypothesize, oh, no. The dashing soldier who lacked manners and proper edict wanted Belle all for himself and was not shy about vocalizing his desires for the better part of their so-far half-hour trek in the woods.

Quasi shook his head and practically snarled in frustration in an effort to quell the beast within the confines of his chest, beginning to roar, to elude him of his frenzied, manic thoughts, courtesy of the monster, that sin that was Rage, that had a tendency to rear its ugly head whenever another man looked in Belle's direction.

" _You mock my wife, soldier_ ," Quasimodo growled roughly, and his gloved hand came up to curl tightly around the pale column of the young lieutenant's throat. "That ends right here, right now. I _see_ how you look at her in the corridors while you're off duty. _Soldier_ ," he snarled, baring his teeth and letting out another animalistic growl, "Let this be your one and _only_ warning. You escaped my hand with just a moment of your precious time lost, but if you come _near_ my wife again, if you so much as _look_ at Belle in a manner that displeases me, then only God Himself will be able to save you, and you won't look to me to be so forgiving…"

Even Quasi flinched as he realized his voice was rougher, coarser than it usually was, and his words towards Captain Phoebus's second-in-command had escaped unchecked from his lips as a pitiless growl. "Leave my wife _alone_ , Frederic. Or you'll _die_. Will I be forced to beat you?" he snarled angrily, irately.

And without giving de Marten a chance to respond or explain away the slip in his judgment, as he had not been thinking clearly when he'd uttered his words, he shoved the soldier backward hard against the trunk of the tree and strode forward, silently seething, a muscle in his jaw twitching and in his one good as well.

Quasi did not care as he heard a muscle in the back of de Marten's skull crack, though he stifled his heavy sigh of disappointment as he heard the soldier's footfalls practically scurrying to catch up and match the bell ringer's lengthy strides.

With a yelp of surprise, Frederic fell to the ground as the taller man stumbled over what was either a twisted, gnarled tree root or more likely, his own boot in this case. The roots in this damned forest that led to the Prince's estate seemed to have a mind of their own, but Frederic's legs felt like lead, and this marked the second or third time since entering the woods with this vicious bastard of a creature, this 'almost-made' that dared to call itself a man now that it was _married_ to a celestial-like angel that, in de Marten's mind, he did not deserve.

Frederic shot a dark, withering glower as he felt the cathedral's bell ringer's strong-arm curl into a fist around his forearm and somewhat roughly force himself to his feet. "Thanks," he growled begrudgingly and heard Quasi roll his eyes.

As a soldier, he prided himself on his sense of direction, and this had been the main point of his and Quasimodo's limited conversation in these woods thus far, though right now, the younger man did not seem confident in his abilities.

"Good _God_!" Quasi snarled angrily. "You've taken us completely in the wrong direction! I told you we should have followed the edge of the woods back that way! You didn't listen to me, and now I'm lost, and if my wife dies and I'm not there by her side, I swear to God, de Marten, I'll kill you myself," Quasi bared his teeth and let out a low growl that sounded almost animalistic that Frederic de Marten promptly ignored and strode right past the vicious bastard, though not before making it a point to violently brush his shoulder against Quasi's.

Lieutenant Frederic stifled his urge to roar in frustration at the Prince's insistence that he be the one to lead the monster into the woods, away from _her_.

He had agreed, somewhat eagerly, to Prince Adam's demands, though it was rumored this particular order came from Judge Claude Frollo himself, and if _that_ were true, Frederic supposed he could not fault the distinguished judge and minister for wishing himself to be rid of the walking curse currently walking in tandem beside him, occasionally shooting him distrustful glances out of the corner of his one good eye.

He had promised both the Prince and the Judge their wills would be done, and that Frederic had been confident in his ability to make his way through the forest following the little matter of disposing of the bell ringer.

All he had to do was lead the wretch far enough out of the way where no one would find his body and then follow a path. That should have been easy, yes?

Frederic had remained confident up until this point that he'd be fine. But he wasn't. This damned forest made no bloody sense, and he was very much lost.

Though he did not dare admit that little nugget of truth out loud to him, lest he fancied his neck being snapped. Just being lost by itself was aggravating enough, but this damned forest had done more than just get Frederic and the monster lost. It was confusing them, twisting the canopy around so they could not tell the light from the darkness, making them think they saw one thing or walked a certain direction when they had actually seen or done the exact opposite. It felt…

_Cursed_. Yes. Cursed. There was no other word the soldier could think of.

The path at Quasi's feet faded as it leads further into the darkness of the woods, yet follow it he knew he must for the sake of Belle.

Somewhere in there were the answers he as her husband so desperately needed, and so his feet begrudgingly and numbly followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. He allowed his gloved hands to touch their skin as he passed, feeling their gentle spirits soothe his. For this was their world as they stretched toward the light they never saw yet sensed, and Quasi knew he must do the same... open up his other senses... to sound, to the aroma and listen so very carefully to every instinct.

Nothing was more frustrating for Quasi than finding out what he had believed to be a real experience was in fact, entirely fictional, a figment of their imaginations. He scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line, and let out another yell.

"Did we get turned around _again_?" Quasi wondered with a frustrated growl as he reached out a strong gloved hand and gripped onto Frederic's shoulder. "I thought we'd already passed this twisted tree. That's _three_ times. We. Are. _Lost_!"

Frederic rolled his eyes and barely stifled a vicious holler of his own. "Get your head on straight. You can yell and scream at me if you think it would help, but it won't help her. Let's just concentrate on getting out of this damned wicked forest in one piece. _Alive_."

Frederic's serious, agitated voice cut through the bell ringer's frantic hollers and Quasi swiveled his head to look back in front of himself. Frederic de Marten was now standing in front of him where only a fraction of a second ago, he'd been behind and was regarding Quasimodo with a sense of immense annoyance and an intense dislike plastered on his pale face. The bell ringer scowled and lumbered past the dark-haired lieutenant when a small muffled noise snatched Quasi from his agitated, heightened senses as he spun back around lightning fast, pulling the dagger from his belt but was too late.

He heard the ripping of fabric, the splitting of flesh, and a puncture of his ribcage—all his own. The dagger from his hand fell to the snow, now stained crimson with his blood from the seeping wound and gaping hole in his side. Frederic de Marten grinned at Quasi through a vicious grin, his teeth bared in a snarl. He knew he had the upper hand.

_Damn you. Curse you to hell…_

His widened cobalt eyes traveled from Frederic's ashen face, which was wrought with apathy and a horrible listlessness that would not have looked out of place on Maître Frollo's gaunt features, but on a soldier of Phoebus's, it was appalling, down to the man's strong hand that gripped the thick hunting knife, which was now buried in his side. The knife met the flesh of the bell ringer's ribcage, soft and pudgy, and made a satisfying squishing sound as the tip of Lieutenant de Marten's blade sank deep enough to make him scream.

The skin near the bell ringer's right thigh, in his ribcage, was torn to shreds as the knife rotated, the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing even louder. He twisted the blade in his hands, all the while sinking it in deeper and deeper. It wouldn't be long until the pain would scatter once his shock subsided.

Quasi coughed feebly between breaths. A warm fluid rose in his throat, choking back the only word he wanted to ask Phoebus's second in command.

Why? _Why_?

His cry was a brilliant sound, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. Frederic smirked, and pulled the blade out of his now deathly-white victim.

He sank to his knees, and at once, he felt a throb of pain strike his temple, and he collapsed, convulsing and trembling like a rabid animal as the thick crimson blood, sticky and garish, messy, as it flowed from the gaping hole in his side, and the cascade of the monstrous bell ringer's life source gushed out in all directions.

Scarlet liquid drenching Frederic's pale face, garish red against pristine white. Frederic turned away as Quasi's plea for mercy became quieter, the sweet tang of blood-tingling in his flared nostrils, and he tasted sweet iron on his tongue.

" _Why_ …" Quasi managed to whisper, something of a miracle between bloody gritted teeth, eyes clenched tightly shut as a white-hot flare of pain jolted up his slightly twisted vertebrae. The confusion must have been evident on his paling face, which was now so pallid and clammy it resembled that of a corpse.

Frederic shook his head and clucked his tongue in mock disappointment before stomping on Quasi's left arm with a heavy boot heel, pleased at the way the monstrous wretch flinched and bit down on his tongue to quell the yell of pain.

"Your… _father_ , shall we call him, who's had so much to offer me. The entire city of Paris knows how little your life is worth to the Judge. Your 'father' has promised me land, titles of my own, a castle of my own. A pretty little wife."

Lieutenant de Marten pressed the heel of his black leather boot deeper as Quasi struggled beneath him, and the bell ringer flinched as the man spat on him.

Frederic was saying something to him, though his voice was fainter now. The pain that had once burned like a fire had faded away to an icy numbness.

Black filled the edges of Quasi's wretched sight and the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat. His breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps. Seconds passed as he laid there, hearing the footfalls of Lieutenant Frederic de Marten's boots fading.

Soon he was alone, and the seconds dragged as they turned to minutes. It was then that he heard a voice.

A woman's voice, though older, not belonging to his sweet wife. A dark shadow, cloaked, swarmed over top of Quasi, trying to help him, he realized, though his vision ebbed and flowed in vicious black tides, rendering it impossible for him to see who exactly it was. And then…it hit him.

Whoever this…this She-Stranger was, this woman wanted to save his life. If he could have, he would have laughed. Surely, she could tell that it was far too late for him to be saved, yet this strange material of beauty with the auburn curls that cascaded in gentle ringlets to just past her collarbones was like a child, naïve to the darkness of the real world. The despair and suffering of the world that took everything he loved away from him.

First, it had been Esmeralda. And now Belle. Quasi would be joining them both soon enough, though. He would be able to leave all the pain behind. The woman still hovered over him, the apparition no more distortion of the light, a human cut out of colors that weren't at all right.

Where the She-Stranger moved, the things behind her cloaked form appeared bowed, distorted. Her beauteous form shimmered and waved. She walked towards him and knelt by his side as though she were painted onto the winter horizon with a fine brush, the artist constantly touching up and making alterations. The Stranger with the luscious strawberry blonde curls was garbed in flowing white linens that no money could buy, nor any human hand could craft.

Despite the fact that she must have trekked through the brush to reach Quasi's fading form, there was not a spot of dirt, mud, blood, or snow on her robe.

She stood barefooted in the late fading winter sun, almost translucent. She spoke to him, though her words were faint. Quasi closed his eyes. He could die happy now, knowing that he would see his friend Esmeralda and his wife, Belle, very soon.

His fragile human heartbeat one last time, though the Stranger's voice was clear, her tone soft and urgent, as the woman was urging him to stay with her.

The ebb and flow of his fading consciousness threatened to swallow him whole, deeper into the echoing darkness of this damned forest that was sure to serve as his icy grave. But what in the seven hells had he done to warrant…this?!

The image of the Judge loomed over him, the cold listlessness in his eyes as Maître had warned him to stay away from Belle when she had first arrived.

He had not heeded the man's words. Frollo had been wrong about Esmeralda, and he was wrong about Belle. A vision of Frollo, sitting at his carving table, writing words over a piece of parchment paper with a quill. There had been nothing wrong in their lives until the arrival of the Romani woman. Esmeralda.

And Belle. Sweet, succulent Belle. So what in the seven hells had he done besides remaining a rueful bastard, an accursed wretch in his father's eyes? What.

The pain he felt in his side no longer lingered, and the She-Stranger's voice became even fainter as his eyes remained closed. God was good to him at last…

And before the darkness completely engulfed him wholly and his last breath left his lungs for the last time, a vision of loveliness danced in his mind, setting his soul to an eerie sense of sweet, bliss serenity, and Quasi felt…at peace.

Her glistening dark eyes and rich chocolate hair, and her sweet smile. The way Belle's lips lifted upward. The way her one dimple crinkles. The way her teeth are perfectly aligned. The warm glow Belle's happiness gives. Her smile is a ray of sunshine, and he wanted nothing more to look upon her beautiful features as he slowly passed into the sweet abyss of darkness and away from the pain.

Hers was the only face he focused on. Not that of the Judge, not Alice or Darius's, just hers.

His Belle.


	35. Trapped

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR**

Belle felt herself drift into consciousness. And then back out. The unfamiliar world around her was a blur, and random images seemed to float aimlessly in the pool of her thoughts, as though they were being viciously blown about by a storm.

A tap of her shoulder momentarily brought the young brunette back to the outside world, but after a second, she was completely lost. She could swear she could feel somebody—was it The Prince? – trying to look at her, dead in the eye, but she couldn't keep focus. Confusion blossomed in her heart as to where she was, why Quasi had brought her back here, to the Prince's estate. Why had he?!

To stare at the unfortunate bleakness of her new reality in the face. But for now, she rested her heavy head against a surprisingly soft pillow, wanting nothing more than to retreat into the wallowing darkness.

Though there was a horrible tightening on the column of her throat as it hollowed, and Belle let out a sigh, feeling her face welcome a struggle. Slowly, it tightened, and it felt as though she couldn't breathe. When her lungs itched and gave a twitch, heaving to cough, she reluctantly pried open her eyes and stared at dark pinpricks that were regarding her in the dimly lit room of…wherever 'here' was for Belle.

The disgusting horror loomed above her as the Prince eyeballed her. The last thing she remembered of last yesterday was how horribly sick she felt. And the sight that she could not tear her gaze away from now was currently causing her pupils to dilate, even in the darkness like this.

His hand hovered slightly over the delicate pale skin of the column of her throat, his slightly callused fingers wound around it like poison ivy creeping up a pillar at its petty face, though the pads of his fingers were light, though it did nothing to ease the queasiness in her stomach, the swooping sensation, or the shudder of revulsion and fear down her back.

No candles were lighted in the room and she slowly felt herself try to sit up, the room swathed in darkness and shadow, and Belle quickly realized it was futile as Prince Adam's darkened blue eyes burned bright like a midnight torch, flashing indignantly with anger, and Belle could clearly see in the man's orbs the strange sense of loathing that escalated, but…but...

But there was something else there: something that she could not quite identify, though she had seen the look in Quasi's eyes now plenty of times, something that Belle felt herself shiver for. A frustrated…desire.

For _her_. She gulped as she felt The Prince's left hand push the weight down on the pillow next to her ear, the left still wound around her throat.

Belle felt something hard press against her thighs and she frowned, quickly realizing it was the man's knees as they forced her thighs apart.

She bit down hard on her tongue hard enough to bleed and a chill traveled down her spine, and her fingers curled instinctively over her waist. Belle realized she was still dressed in the same dark blue gown from yesterday, though now it smelled strangely of lavender and eucalyptus. Her dress and her hands futilely shoving at his chest were the only barriers against The Prince.

"Ngh—get _off_ of me!" she screamed, and she flinched at how hoarse and weak her voice sounded. "Get. Away," she snarled. She looked upon Prince Adam without a hint of disgust. His fingers wound around her throat forced even deeper, and Belle parted her lips open to trying to draw in air. "You—you can't be serious…"

Still, The Prince's fingers made no move off her neck. "There's no escaping this place. You are _mine_ , Belle," he said simply, his deep baritone voice echoing in her eardrums.

Belle favored silence as an apt response, forcing her body to relax and emanating a tense exhale through her nose and closing her eyes, fully prepared to welcome Death like an old friend if that's what he wanted.

But it did not come. His fingers loosened their ironclad grip around her throat, and Belle felt a tense, tired release sending a breath of air to her much deprived lungs and she sat up in the bed, turning her head to one side as she coughed, one her hands wrapped around her pale throat.

Slowly, Belle sat up straighter and took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Shadows danced in the dimly lit light, what little of it there was streaming from a light torch fire as it flickered. Cinders glowed against the hearth of a roaring fireplace where a bear pelt rug lay in front of it.

There was a slice of what looked like a piece of lemon cake and a tin decanter of dark red wine. She glanced down at the bed and her insides coiled and she let out a muffled yelp of surprise as a young woman with short blonde hair cropped as short as a boy's, was perched on the edge of her bed, caught her attention, a hand over her heart as it raced at the surprise.

The Prince noticed where she was looking and he frowned, roughly gesturing for the petite little blonde to vacate the room immediately

"That's Maria," he explained, his brows knitted together in a disapproving glower as he heard the pale creature whimper. "My…own personal hearth keep. She has been assigned to you. She is yours. She will get you whatever you want or need, you need only ask her, and it is yours, Belle. I should want the future wife and mother of our children to be quite comfortable here, wouldn't you say?" he commented, his languid voice as smooth as silk that sent a shudder down Belle's spine as she blinked once.

Belle dipped her head in acknowledgment, taking a seat in the chair across from him, keeping her head bowed and her gaze averted from him, not wanting at all to look her savior in the eyes, knowing sooner or later that she would have to. "Why did you save me, Prince Adam?"

_Lies, lies_ , her conscience tormented. _He's trapped you here and you know this. Monster. A beast_.

Oh, she knew all too well what The Prince was. But if there was a slim chance playing along with his delusions of grandeur and pretending to be interested in the Prince would keep her alive that much longer until Quasi came for her and took her away from this place, then she would indulge in it, and right now, the man needed to think of himself as her savior, as her own personal god. She shuddered and bit the inside wall of her cheek, waiting in silence.

The Prince frowned. "I already told you my reasons behind my actions yesterday, though you were still asleep, so I guess I have to repeat myself. I cannot allow your bloodline to become further tainted by allowing you to spend the remainder of your days with a filthy, disgusting disease-ridden demon like that creature. You could do so much better. You have _me_ now, isn't that more than enough for you?" he spat, crossing one leg over the other and pouring himself a goblet of wine, not caring the uncomfortable glances Maria was shooting Belle. "Maria here will pour you some of our finest wine if you should like," Prince Adam announced coldly. "And then she will return to the kitchens, won't you, darling?" Prince Adam growled, no semblance of warmth in his voice.

Belle swallowed past the lump in her throat at Prince Adam's words. She caught Maria's gaze and one of her eyes gave a twitch, though if she wasn't mistaken, and about these things she usually wasn't, the briefest flickers of hope darted through the young woman's blue eyes, and she felt herself inhale sharply, wondering if she could trust the new maid.

The petite little blonde was trying silently to communicate with her eyes, somehow, that she was going to be fine, but then something Prince Adam had said caught her attention. Wait. Yesterday.

That meant she had slept for an entire evening when she had passed out, and she had no idea where she was, and one glance over at the young lord's servant, the golden-haired maid was enough.

The girl was _livid_ and was regarding Belle with what she could only perceive as animosity and a fierce hatred in those fiery blue orbs of hers. Belle swallowed nervously.

She hoped her eyes did not betray her nervousness or fear. Belle sighed, the tiniest of gasps escaping her as she allowed the girl to pour her a glass of wine. though she knew better than to drink it.

_He's probably poisoned it. Drugged it. Don't drink it_ , she could hear Quasi's voice ringing in her ears, and suddenly, she wished he were here.

"Thank you, Maria," she whispered, lowering her voice so that only the young maid could hear her. "I promise…" _Promise what_? The voices inside her head taunted. _To help her escape her life of servitude from a horrible master?_

Suddenly, Belle felt quite guilty, not really certain what she had hoped to gain by attempting to try to speak to the girl in private.

Was it to reach Maria? To ask her questions of the Prince? To demand she help her escape if there was even a shred of kindness in her tiny little body? Belle herself did not know the answer, nor did she have time to ponder it as the young blonde maid called Maria mumbled something incoherent under her breath in a high-pitched, breathy little squeak and scampered away before Belle had a chance to say anything else.

The clearing of Prince Adam's throat as he demanded the young woman's attention jolted Belle out of her musings of what exactly had happened to the hearth keep during her time here with the Prince and back towards him, as he demanded it. His cold gaze was fixated upon her, completely unreadable.

Seeing him face-to-face like this, in daylight, though whatever study they were in was rather dimly lit, left yet another impression on Belle. He seemed a much more solid figure than before.

All except his blue eyes devoid of warmth. Those seemed never to change, and Belle doubted they would.

Belle let out a yelp as the sound of a clanging behind her echoed throughout the room. Maria had dropped the wine flagon on the floor, spilling it onto the stone floor.

Prince Adam didn't bother to stifle the low warning growl that escaped from his throat. His expression turned murderous as he rose from his chair and strode towards Maria, seizing fistfuls of the maid's uniform, and shaking it.

"You must be actively seeking new ways to test my patience, Barreau," Prince Adam growled, the tip of his nose practically touching poor Maria's slender little nose. "Clean that up, and be quick about it, or I'll cut off another finger." His deep voice was painfully bitter as he towered over Maria.

"Y—yes, M—Master," the maid-stammered in a nervous squeak.

" _Don't_! It was an accident," retorted Belle hotly, rising from the bed and moving to stand protectively in front of the maid, holding an arm out in front of Maria as though she thought that might prevent the man from lashing out in anger. "Do not blame the girl, Prince Adam, for you are the one who makes her so nervous she can barely hold the flagon steady," she snapped, her dark brown eyes flashing indignantly with anger. "Your hearth keep, servant or not, does not deserve the cruelty you put her through, nor what you say. If anyone should apologize for what has transpired here, it is _you_."

Belle dipped her head, allowing a curly lock of her hair to fall in front of her eyes and acting as a sort of barrier between herself and his gaze as Prince Adam turned his wrathful gaze towards her, wanting nothing more than to put a quick end to this conversation, though she sensed this beast still wanted to discuss himself.

_If it keeps you alive, do whatever you can_. She could swear she could hear Quasi's sweet, tenor-like tones talking to her, and she emanated a tense and shaking breath. Prince Adam, however, was having none of it.

Ignoring Belle as if he found her forced pleasantries a bore, he moved away from his place and relinquished his hold upon Maria, though not before shoving the tiny creature backward so violently that she tripped.

"Very well. You're fortunate, Maria. I…wish to speak to you in my private chambers later at eight. Clean that up and get out." His voice was clipped and hard, the last vestiges of his patience tested.

"Y-yes, M-Master," Maria whispered hoarsely, getting on her knees, as she hastened to clean up the spilled red wine off the floor, which normally would have sent Prince Adam's blood ablaze as new thoughts of cruelty to impart would have flickered through his mind now only sent waves of revulsion to his mind and Prince Adam was forced to look away as he looked at Belle.

"I am…grateful that you are awake. You've been asleep an entire day, had been going on two, before you finally decided to wake up," Prince Adam announced, smirking at her. "I was beginning to worry after you, sweet princess."

Belle blinked owlishly at the man; her mouth slightly agape in shock. Registering the dumbfounded expression on the young witch's radiant, beautiful features, Prince Adam reacted by smirking in an almost intimate manner, as if he were enjoying some private joke with himself.

He lifted the rim of his cup to his lips and drank heavily, all the while never once taking his glance off Belle, carefully studying her facial expressions over the rim of his goblet, scrutinizing her reactions.

Prince Adam's lack of response irked Belle, and she began to feel a little nervous.

Why had he brought her here, to suffer in his company, so what on earth did he want with her now? Was he just toying with her, to coax more feelings of guilt to the forefront of her mind, to make her feel grateful that he had, what, somehow 'saved her life,' according to him?

Noting his continued silence as he poured himself a fresh goblet of wine and drinking, Belle began to feel agitated.

If Prince Adam wanted something of her, why did he not just come outright and demand it?

Was he still pursuing her, was that it? Though Belle had thought she'd made her feelings towards him quite clear and plain to him.

"Is there something that you wish of me, Prince Adam?" asked Belle, lifting her chin slightly to meet his gaze, unable to play along with the insufferable man's antics any longer. "Why am I here with you?"

The harsh bark of Prince Adam's voice rendered her frozen, rooted to her chair, and unable to move, though she wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door at his response.

"Because I wish for you to be here. It…pleases me to look at you, Belle Dupont. You will make a good company, in time, and a good wife. I have brought you here in pursuit of that urge which until now has remained silent, but I know you are lying to yourself about your desires."

He curled his fingers into claws and raked them over the fabric of his armchair and bared his teeth. So that was what he wanted of her, then. Belle bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, feeling the all-too-familiar spark of hot anger welling like a fire-seed planted by a dragon in the pit of her stomach, as it had whenever she was around men who displeased her.

" Now, here you are…no second thoughts. It was your decision to come here, was it not? I did not force you. You needed a doctor's care, I provided that for you, little dove," he breathed, and Belle could hear the hitch in Prince Adam's cold tone.

At least now she knew _where_ she was.

He had taken her back to the estate. But did Quasi know what happened? Did _anyone_ else know what happened, for that matter?

She highly doubted it. Letting out a concentrated but slightly shaking breath, Belle lifted her chin and leveled her gaze as she did her best not to quirk her brows in a sarcastic manner, which would not help her in this situation right now.

Prince Adam must have appeared to enjoy this since he smirked. "What you did the other night, was…inexcusable, yet, here we are."

His nonchalant gaze now turned towards Belle as he set his cup down and with surprising speed like a panther that had eyed and stalked its prey, he bolted from his chair and crossed the room and leaned down slightly, closing off the gap of space between them. He was leaning in close enough for her to kiss him if she was of a mind to try such a thing.

To that, she could not seem to formulate a response.

"Why is it that you think…that I have not killed you yet?" he growled, his icy cerulean gaze turning intense as he stared deep into Belle's brown eyes.

She felt like she was being questioned and yet at the same time, Belle was aware that the Prince, for reasons unknown to her, actually seemed to be listening to her. _Strange_. She was led to believe in him that his only interest in women was to seduce them and bed them.

He remembered. Belle did not know how she felt about him remembering her words in the corridor.

Still, she answered as steadily as she could. "You need me."

There was a pause before Prince Adam continued. The intensity in his eyes seemed to soften, and it was replaced by something unreadable, something vague which Belle could not discern, and she hated it.

"Why?" he breathed, and Belle gulped as his blue eyes widened. "What is to stop me from disposing of you once you've…fulfilled your purpose?" Prince Adam growled, and Belle flinched but did not dare avert her gaze from the man holding her captive, not even when he lifted a finger and caressed her cheek, almost tenderly brushing back a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Hmm?" he crooned, still continuing that infuriating behavior of trailing the pads of his fingers along her collarbones, which sent a surprising tingle of heat throughout her body, warming her.

"Milord, I…" She hissed as the pads of his fingers came to cup her chin.

He was mocking her. "Tell me." His tone was curt and hard.

Belle swallowed nervously, hating that she had to lie through her teeth and pretend to go along with whatever Prince Adam was planning, but if it was the only way to save her life, then by God, she would tell him whatever he wanted to hear if it meant that she might live to see another day.

"Because like it or not, Your Highness, I am your key to this place, from what you've said in conversation. And should you wish to maintain your hold on it? You need me alive. And you need an heir of noble blood, a firstborn who might remove some of the… stains on your family name."

She gulped and bit her bottom lip in hesitation. A bold response, but she had managed to piece together the missing pieces the day in the library when Darius had stopped by and asked after her well-being following the Prince's encounter with her, it was that it had taught her that it could do a world of good to stay silent and listen to the gossiping...

A muscle in Prince Adam's jaw twitched, and he looked…rather curious. "You have such a low opinion of yourself, Belle?" he asked.

"No." Her voice came out sharper than she would have liked, a tone of impatience lacing into her normally kind and shy tone. _Why_ was he asking her all of these questions, or for that matter, speaking to her at all?

He should just take what he wanted of her right now. Perhaps there was a part of Belle that had foolishly believed that after the first encounter, he would simply assault her, kill her and be done with her. She almost— _almost_ —would have preferred that.

Anything but this, to remain his prisoner, locked up until he might have use of her. Now, something about Prince Adam's presence was putting her on edge.

"You feel as though I am treating you unfairly here, don't you?" Prince Adam spat, leaning down even further. Belle shirked back into her own armchair as far as she could, until her back pressed against the edge of the chair, and the tip of Prince Adam's slender nose touched hers. " _Don't_ you?" he repeated, his tone going dangerously soft and quiet.

Belle would have preferred it if he would have shouted. She tried her hardest to fight back her honesty but found she could not. "Yes—"

Prince Adam growled, curling his hands into fists over Belle's wrists, effectively pinning her to the chair. She was completely at his whims.

"Well, my darling, let me tell you a useful truth so that you do not set yourself up for disappointment. Life is pain. You want more, I can tell that much, but life is unfair. It's people who are the monsters. People like my own father. Like your _husband_. Your precious bell ringer."

Belle blinked as Prince Adam's mouth twisted into a sneer. His tone was bitter, though his speech cut like a dagger plunged straight in her heart. He did not sound as though he enjoyed spewing such a venomous stream of dark thoughts to her. Belle frowned as he looked away, down towards her lips.

Feeling a surge of panic course through her veins, Belle began to speak rapidly in response, her eyes cast downward at his boots.

"I cannot offer you an adequate enough response, Prince Adam, because our conversation has strayed too far," she began hastily. "The—the only reassurance I can offer to you is that my…reaction, the way I behaved toward you in the—in the cathedral the other day, will not happen again."

Prince Adam sneered, baring his canines. His smile was wolfish, predatory. He leaned in further and Belle was surprised when his lips pressed against hers. "There it is again. That look. You called me the other night a monster. A _beast_. If that is what you think of me, then so be it," he growled. "Oh, my darling…You are much mistaken if you should think that you have any hope of freedom in this place. You're _mine_ , Dupont. No one else's."

His powerful hands relinquished their grip on her wrists and landed on her waist, and his strong fingers came to grip painfully tight on her wrist. "You still must be punished for your actions the other night, little dove," Prince Adam growled, and his lips clamped down hard on hers, hard enough that she could taste the welling of blood on her bottom lip. "You escaped from me once, it won't happen a second time."

"What…?" Belle let her mouth drop open in shock as Prince Adam straightened his posture, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You'll see. I think you're going to be quite happy as my wife, my princess, Belle," grinned Prince Adam, flashing her that disarmingly charming white smile that did nothing to mask the anger that lingered in his blue eyes. "You aren't going anywhere that I don't want you to, little dove. You are mine to do with as I please. I think I like you, so I'll keep you. Just…close your eyes and pretend I'm him. Your precious _husband_ can't save you from me," Prince Adam said and threw back his head and laughed, and it was…evil.

Belle was well and truly trapped here in this place. Her heart sank as she watched Prince Adam stride out of the room, hearing the locking of the deadbolt behind her, and Belle knew he would not have been careless enough to leave a pin or anything with which she could pick the lock.

Belle heard his pounding footsteps slowly disappear down the corridor, and she turned back to see that the door was closed, locked.

Making a beeline straight for the door, she tried to force it to open, her bare hands pushing against the rough surface of the door, which was cracked and weathered with age. It was all in vain. The door stood stubbornly in its place.

There was not even a viable window in this room, save for the one over by the fireplace's hearth, and if she broke that, Prince Adam would hear, and then she would be dead, as the man would kill her without so much as hesitating. A shudder ran through her.

_Trapped_. "I'm trapped," she whispered to no one in particular. She was well and truly confined within the walls of this very room.

Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic.

A metallic smell hung and lingered in the air, almost rendering it suffocating and it became difficult to breathe. It reminded her somewhat of the smell of dried blood, and for a moment, Belle found herself wondering if she was the first person Prince Adam had brought to this place, where his prisoners lived, or if she was the first.

The room was pitch dark, and she had no choice but to huddle back into the same corner, wrap her arms around her knees, and pray that someone— _anyone_ —would find her before it was too late for her.

She was going to die here if she could not think of a way to save herself.

_Quasi, wherever you are, I hope you hear me. I'm running out of time_.

Belle begged silently, praying that somehow, wherever he was, her husband heard her prayers, and was coming, biting down on her bottom lip.

_Hurry_.


	36. All that Remains

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**

Belle felt her vision slowly but surely clear. She felt her eyelids flutter open as she blearily awoke to the warmth of an unfamiliar room, the walls stone slab, and not at all the bell tower of the cathedral, which was where she expected to be. Shadows danced along the wall, playing hide and seek among the stone bricked walls as torch fires flickered and a lit fire provided warmth through the room. Cinders glowed on the hearth in front of a skinned bear pelt rug.

A six-pronged candleholder was lit on a small wooden table near her bedside for light.

And the bed she found herself in was not her and Quasi's bed, but rather a wide sea of vair and fur and silk. The softest (and warmest) blankets she'd ever had the pleasure of burrowing under, though at the thought and sight of her husband not by her side, her insides coiled, and her stomach churned miserably.

There was a horrible constricting on her throat, and it felt as though she couldn't breathe. Belle blinked and sat up slowly, swallowing past the growing lump in her throat and blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar room, once, twice, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she took in the new surroundings. This…was not Notre Dame. Not the cathedral. _Not_ her home. Her head throbbed from where she'd been struck at the base of her skull with something hard and cold.

She laid back against the bed, resting her head against the wooden headboard. Squeezing her eyes shut, Belle shot a silent prayer to the heavens to will the rest of her pains and nausea to go away. The rest of the lavish room around her became quite detached.

All she could seem to concentrate on was the pain rooted deep in her head, she could barely hear the low murmurs of two other voices—other people—chattering around her in hushed, worried tones. All she felt, all she knew, was the pain of this moment. And it _hurt_.

Oh God Lord Almighty, it hurt.

Her eyes remaining closed, she allowed her thoughts to drift to before, how someone, and she could have _sworn_ during her state of semi-consciousness, that she'd heard Quasi's voice speaking to someone, probably Darius or the Archdeacon, maybe even Alice. Belle felt her heart inexplicably sink to the pit of her stomach as she glanced to the left and right, searching for her husband and seeing no sign of him. She let out a sigh. Belle had hoped Quasi would be here.

Strange as though it would seem, she could have sworn she heard her husband's voice talking to her while she slept.

"But I…but I _heard_ you, Quasi…" Silence. Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. _Maybe it was a dream_. That was it. It must have all been in her head. She sighed again and collapsed her head back against the pillow, wishing that it had not been, and to her surprise, a male's voice rent the otherwise silent air. The creaking of someone's footsteps as they stepped from the shadows and into the lavish bedroom of…wherever she happened to be, echoed through the strangely desolate room. Someone else was in the room. In the room with her _alone_.

Look at how well _that_ had transpired for her earlier when she'd been left alone with the Prince, who she felt sure, yes, she was sure, had somehow tried to poison her, though what the man's motives might be for such a heinous act, she could not begin to fathom what she had done to warrant almost being poisoned. Furrowing her brows in confusion, Belle blinked once and stifled a groan as she sat up straighter in the little bed, twice until her mind slowly began to settle and the strange sense of giddiness intermingled with remorse danced away.

Her eyes snapped open even wider as the footfalls of whoever was in the room with her drew nearer, quick enough that the room around her began to spin.

God, she felt so _sick_. Belle could taste the bitter bile coating the back of her throat and she swallowed it back. Feeling lightheaded, eyes clenched shut as she wished for nothing more than the black spots dancing in front of her vision to go away and leave her in peace, she placed her head on the itchy woolen blanket that covered her knees and focused on regulating her breathing back to something that resembled normalcy. In. Out. Repeat a few more times.

Belle instinctively felt her left-hand wrap around the column of her throat, gingerly wincing as she could swear that she felt the red markings, indentations of the Prince's strong finger markings, feeling, and hating, the burning sensation left in their wake. A lone tear traced down her cheek and she blinked back salty tears. The man's voice spoke again, eliciting a startled scream from Belle.

She'd quite forgotten there was another presence in the room with her.

"Mademoiselle. Are you in any pain? You gave us all…quite a _turn_ when His Grace brought you home a few days ago. You've been asleep for almost three days, with a bad fever an ailment of the stomach, but it looks as though my colleague Monsieur Cogsworth was correct in the assumption that you will make a full recovery. Our Prince got you to his healing Maester just in the nick of time, it would seem, dear."

The Stranger's voice was rich, melodious, soothing, not accusatory in any way, and she knew immediately the voice did not belong to that of the Prince. She sat up straighter, her dark brown eyes were now wide open and more alert.

Belle felt the heat speckle along her cheeks, not even realizing she'd been dozing off. A dark shadow engulfed her seated form, where she sat, perched and unmoving on top of the bed's mattress, unwilling to move for the time being until these vicious swells of nausea and dizziness passed, and she furrowed her brows.

"N—no," she whispered, blearily struggling to lift her head, and trying to focus her gaze more than a few feet in front of herself. Belle felt her face drain of color, what little of it was left in her already pale features as her gaze drifted over towards the man's lean form. "Who _are_ you? Where am I? What _is_ this place, monsieur?"

In a moment of panic, as terror seized her chest and worked its way swiftly up into her throat in the form of bitter acidic stomach bile, she bolted from the bed and quickly came to the conclusion that little maneuver had been a grave mistake on her part as she immediately shot out an arm to use the wall as a support brace, and instead, found herself clutching onto the arm of the tall, slender man, a slightly admonishing look in his inquisitive brown eyes as he silently guided Belle back to the edge of the bed and with firm hands on both shoulders, bade her sit.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. My name is Monsieur Lumiere, a member of the house of staff who serves Our Grace his Prince, Adam de Bataille. You—"

"I know him, he can die _slowly_ cut into a _thousand_ pieces for all I care, monsieur," snapped Belle meanly, not bothering to hide the disdain for this Prince who had, if she were to believe her instincts, sought to poison her. " _Where is my husband_ , monsieur? I want to see him. He is the bell ringer of—"

Though Belle immediately caught herself as the young woman quickly realized that it was improper of her to ask this strange fellow after the whereabouts of her husband so informally in this man, considering who the man reported to. The inventor's daughter watched, her heart sinking to the churning, twisting pit of her stomach as the blond-haired man's previous relief and jovial smile almost instantly dissipate, and she felt the bitter acidic stomach bile coat the back of her throat and settle on her tongue. She blinked owlishly at Monsieur Lumiere.

" _Where_. _Is_. _He_?" she begged, hating hearing the crack and dip in her tone. "Please. Do not keep me in the dark like this, sir. Is my husband alive?"

But the gilded, golden-haired man could only shake his hand and hold out his arm.

"Come." He commented and held out his arm for Belle to take. "The Prince had commanded your presence at the front gate. There is…something that I think that you should see for yourself, milady. It will answer any burning questions that you might have, my lovely little mademoiselle. Come," he repeated.

Albeit reluctantly, Belle felt her fingers grip into an ironclad fist as she allowed herself to be led out of the strange bedroom and down a hall.

Dread set her face like rigor mortis; her teeth locked tightly together. The dread crept over her like an icy chill, numbing her brain.

In this frozen state, Belle's mind only offered her one single thought. _Something happened_. There was no avoiding it, given how distant and aloof the strange fellow who called himself Lumiere, as though he were God's Light in this world, was behaving, refusing to answer any of her questions pertaining to Quasi.

The man was being tight-lipped. The dread continued to creep down her spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of the finest silk. She felt her feet on her skin, descending until Belle felt almost frozen to the spot. Her stomach was full of lead, her feet no longer taking directions from her own mind anymore.

All she could do was pray.

* * *

Both the Judge and Prince Adam squinted their eyes and practically pinched their noses in disgust as Captain Phoebus de Chateauper's promising young lieutenant and second-in-command, Lieutenant Frederic de Marten, stood patiently waiting at attention, his hands clasped and folded neatly behind his back.

The pair of men inspected the corpse much like a wolf would inspect its prey before making the lunge to kill it. It was only when Frederic had unceremoniously dumped the remains, what little was left of them, in front of the Judge that Frollo's breath hitched and caught in his throat and a pang of surreal guilt overwhelmed him. What in God's name had happened? He was supposed to love the boy.

God had seen fit to bear Frollo with the cross of burdening his life with the accursed wretch's life as the infant that had been left abandoned to die on the steps of Notre Dame had needed care, and he had never thought that it was to come to this. He'd never thought that the Prince would have resorted to such measures.

Claude knew all too well what he was, his hardened soul could rival even that of the Devil's Himself, so said the rumors that swirled from the smallfolk in the villages, as he would dare to say his own son, adopted or not, who'd done him no wrong, harbored no ill will towards the name who he had once called, "Father."

The split of his personality that wondered if there was a chance the mademoiselle Belle would not forgive him for this crime, though the other half raged war within the confines of his mind and felt no remorse for involving Frederic and the man's savage, brutal ways into this.

Frollo took a half step forward towards the corpse's remains, and his face hardened, and a muscle in his gray eye gave a feeble little twitch. The Judge took in the details of what remained of the bell ringer's corpse and how utterly gruesome it had become. "God forgive me…"

The body was almost devoid of skin and pitted by burrowing insects. Frollo turned away as his stomach heaved and gave a painful little lurch, nostrils filled with the stench of rotting meat. Without any eyelids, where the man's eyes used to be were now nothing more than blood-drenched hollowed eye sockets, while the lip-less mouth hung open, his nose, what was left of it, in shreds. Death had frozen the young man's face into a rigid snarl, a final, eternal lamentation to the heavens.

"He deserved it," Frederic said casually, giving Frollo a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and he sighed. Frollo found himself unable to pull his gaze away from what remained of the corpse. The open kneecap below a sharp, white-boned jutting femur, large chunks of flesh missing from the torso.

Shreds of pieces of the man's suit lay discarded around the body, soaked in dried, crimson blood, the coppery scent of which wafted towards and lingered in Frollo's nostrils. Three or four ribs peeked out from the man's clothing, caked in blood, and the face….by god.

Just the face alone was enough for Frollo to almost retch the breakfast he had from this morning.

What remained of the man's head was half a crown of hair and the rest, from the wolf's scalp to his face—had been ripped apart from the depleted and blood-soaked skull, probably by wolves if he had to guess. Or hounds meant for hunting sport.

Frollo felt a shudder of revulsion travel down his spine. In place of where the man's eyes used to be were bloody hollows.

The poor man's brain was practically crushed, spilling out in bits. Frollo had seen during his tenure as judge and Minister for the entire city of Paris, several corpses in their line of work, sprawled with maggots and the bodies' remains picked apart by the ravens and the crows, but nothing quite like this that had ever succeeded in making his stomach churn and bile coat at the back of his throat like it was doing right now.

The cold chill of the early December morning air had preserved the man's corpse grisly state, and as such, prevented the lush of its stench.

Nevertheless, Frollo found he could not quite look upon it again and found himself turning his head sharply away and folded his arms across his chest, shrinking into his black set of woolen robes as much as possible for warmth.

The Judge felt the immense urge to divert his attention for a while and turned towards Frederic de Marten's comrade, an archer, and second-in-command if someone should ever happen to the young man in battle. "Bring the maester with you and go and fetch Lady Dupont."

The younger man, if he was startled by Frollo's demands, was adept at hiding it, and favored silence as an apt response after parting his lips open slightly to protest the idea of having a sweet young woman like Belle Dupont be subject to witnessing such a tragedy with her own two eyes, but after being on the receiving end of a particularly challenging and withering look from his master that had Frederic the ability, would have turned the puppy into stone, the young archer offered a curt dipping of his head and turned his heels to obey, his boots scraping against the freshly-fallen fallen dead leaves.

Frederic stood mutely beside him and Frollo could not help but feel an inexplicable pinch of anger between to swell in the confines of his chest.

"When I asked you to 'take care of it,' I did not mean…" Here, he wildly gesticulated with his arms towards the maimed corpse. What was left of it? " _This_ ," he growled, grinding his teeth, locking his jaw in anger. "I can only presume there were better ways for him to die than _this_."

The young dark-haired soldier's face remained perfectly impassive, keeping his hairy hands clasped behind his back. "Mmm." Was all the man said, as the handsome lieutenant chewed on the inside wall of his mouth. "Perhaps. But better to look like an accident than murder. That way the girl won't detect, sir."

Frollo heaved a heavy sigh and pinched at his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "What _happened_ , Frederic?"

"Hungry wolves, sir." Frederic's answer escaped his thin, wormy lips as a low warning growl, and Frollo could swear he felt his blood chill.

"Y—you mean… _wolves_ from the forest did _this_?" The Judge felt himself blink owlishly at the taller, older, and the much more imposing man standing idle next to him as the pair of men eyed the corpse. What a

"Yes," Frederic answered listlessly, his tone flat and emotionless.

Frollo felt his stomach give a painful twist. He had asked Frederic and his companions to dispose of the boy for him, but never in a million years could he have ever imagined it would come to _this_.

It could have been just as simple as slitting the man's throat. A dagger in his gut. Something. Anything but _this_. This…oh, this was undoubtedly one of the worst ways to go. A violent, bloody, gruesome way. What was left of the boy who he had sometimes considered something of a son to him, bastard or not, was not a corpse. No.

This was a leftover _meal_. Slim pickings of bones for his dogs. A fitting end for a wretched curse on society who had almost damaged the Prince's new prize beyond the point of no return, and for that, he'd saved her. Still, there was a small prickling of doubt at the back of Frollo's mind. He had to be sure.

"How do I know for sure it's the bell ringer, Frederic?"

The Judge heard the soldier give off a low snarl of annoyance and fumble against the layers of the man's clothing, what was left of it. At last, his best hunter pulled out a pair of brown leather gloves, and Frollo recognized it. The boy had been fond of wearing them whenever he tended to the precious brass and iron bells back in the cathedral, and as Frederic wordlessly pressed them into Frollo's outstretched palm, Frollo felt his jaw tighten in anger, thinking this act of murder justified.

_The boy deserved it. Repeat it to yourself. The wretch deserved this_. Now that the boy was out of the picture, Frollo could concentrate his sole attention on returning to his duties in Paris, and it was the Prince's job now to ensure the prickly little brunette was happy here, on rebuilding his dynasty anew and ensuring the pureblood family name and his progeny would live on for a thousand years.

Frederic gave off a slight growl, startling Frollo out of his musings and he blinked and returned his attentions to the young lieutenant, who was awaiting further orders.

"Very good, Frederic," he complimented, and dug into the pocket of his black trench coat and thrust a small pouch of gold coins, farthings and shillings alike, into the man's waiting and open palm. "Your payment. As promised."

Their faces met, a cruel, thick uncomfortable silence seeping into the cool fall air as poison, before Frederic's thin lips curved upwards into a sadistic and sour smile.

"Of course." The soldier made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded strangely like a purr to Frollo, and turned on the heel of his boot and walked away, hands balled into fists as the other boy, the archer, returned, and had to practically jog to catch up to his commanding officer's long strides.

"Milord Frollo, the—the Maester is on his way, as is the Lady Belle," the young archer called, having to practically jog to catch up to Frederic.

The Judge felt himself nod, closing his eyes shut in quiet contemplation. He felt himself shift at the waist and slowly opened them.

There she was. The Prince's prize, his material of beauty, his bride. Sweet, succulent Belle Dupont descending the stone stairwell that led out into the Prince's family's courtyard. Even in rancor, and despite how ill she looked, she was beautiful. Truly a magnificent prize to be won.

Frollo felt his gaze linger perhaps longer than it ought to have on her breast.

The Judge was content to watch Belle nervously approach him and Prince Adam in silence, a look of nervous apprehension in her dark brown eyes. The Judge watched as Belle and the Maester slowly approached. Frollo caught the man's gaze and repressed a smirk as he flinched. He looked away, and his rounded, pudgy nose gave a feeble little twitch and he watched as his Prince and the Judge of Paris, regarding the corpse with a horrified look in his wide, almond-shaped, light brown eyes.

Frollo furrowed his graying brows into a frown and was rewarded as a light pink blush speckled along the Healing Maester's face and the man promptly looked away, saying nothing. _Good man_ , he thought meanly and bit the inside wall of his cheek, and Frollo drifted his gaze up and met Belle's gaze, and their eyes locked.

He stared at the unspoken story of sadness in her dark eyes. A young woman of twenty-four, and much too lovely to bear the face of a widow, oh, he'd known all about his son's secret union to this fine material of beauty. A perfectly legal ceremony, though in their Lord's eyes, it would never be seen as anything but a curse, though Frollo was pleased to see the yellow gold ring she'd worn last night was now since discarded.

No, the Prince's new bride deserved so much more than the Judge's accursed wretch of a monstrous son. She was much too lovely to bear the face of a widow.

But not for long.


	37. Will He See Me?

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX**

The early dawn was cold. Thin greying clouds that promised rain stretched across the endless sky and the frost that coated the dirt and brown, dying grass as December crept along at its petty pace was almost even worse, promising winter.

Callous weather, cruelly unfair, and the Romani people in Clopin Trouillefou's encampment had started to grow weary and agitated.

If the meat they hunted in the forest that bordered the edge of the city of Paris wasn't tough, they were lacking and chewy. Their fingers were almost bluish-black, and their lips were cracked and bleeding, tinged blue with the cold.

The camp that lived beneath the hills overlooking the Wolves Wood, as they called it, and so appropriately named, given it was where they hunted, grateful for any provisions it offered their kind—rabbits and foxes for their bottomless pits they dared to call stomachs. Though they had to be wary of one thing: wolves.

Along the line of tattered and worn tents perched above the frosted soil, a dark red ball went sailing and a small child's laughter tumbled along right with it, never straying too far behind. The little girl moved like her knees were just hinges, wobbling to and from before almost tripping over the hem of her tattered and worn dress, and as she scrambled in an attempt to right herself, she clapped like it was all part of the plan and rolled to her stomach to get up again. She was French and cute as hell. She ran after the ball with enthusiasm, which felt as though it lightened the drab. The hem of her brown dress and black ripped cloak scraped against the mud.

As other Romanis in their camp went about their duties, no one noticed the red ball enough to step aside to make way for it as it tumbled, and the girl watched in dismay as instead, it bounced against one of Monsieur Clopin's comrade's boots, which sent it scurrying inside a drafty looking tent that looked as though one good puff of wind would blow it over in the coming thunderstorm. The child saw her precious prize disappear instead of the tent and the girl, not much older than five, stood at the entrance of the tent flap with a nervous look of apprehension, fidgeting with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm.

No candles were lighted inside and none of the other men appeared to be inside the tent, so there was no one to locate her toy ball. The little girl looked to the side, left and right, in the hopes of asking a grown-up for help but all the other guards, their backs were turned towards her and voices indistinct and murmuring something about 'guests' behind her back.

Her ears perked up at the mention of 'guests,' and had her eyes lighted up with intrigue. Guests?

What _guests_? The King had never brought 'guests' back to the camp before, not unless it was to _hang_ them for treason and trespassing.

The child shuddered and scrunched her nose in disgust as she inhaled a sharp breath of cold fall air that pierced her lungs. _Papa says I am a little warrior. And warriors don't fear the darkness_ , and it was this sole thought that gave her comfort as she stepped into the abyss.

At first, Celeste, (that was her name, Celeste) thought the darkness of inside the tent must have deceived her sight, or else her eyes were confused and dazzled by the pitch-blackness, wondering what on earth the King had set this tent up for if you couldn't even see when you were walking in it.

The child let out a tiny squeak as she took a half step forward and tripped over something that felt like a chair and stubbed her pinky toe in the process, and as she walked on, hobbling now on one foot, clutching her injured toe in the process, her gaze alighted on the shape of the bright red ball as her vision was now fully adjusted to the darkness, and the toy was resting in what she made out on top of a wooden bed.

As she approached, a towering shadow engulfed her tiny form and horror chilled her insides, rendering the blood that pumped through her veins like ice. A white hand appeared from the dark, its fingers spread wide like starfish as it took the ball in a shaking, light grip and offered it to her, no words exchanged.

The shadowy figure moved forward into the light, this He-Stranger who smelled of blood and ripped flesh like he'd been viciously attacked by wolves. She briefly remembered the creature had been half-alive and raving, delirious and somewhat feverish from blood-loss from multiple stab wounds when Agathe had found him in the woods, and with the help of a man from their encampment, had brought him back here. The creature, not much older than _her_ father, in his mid-twenties, looked at her like a wolf would inspect its prey, at her light green eyes, tattered and worn brown dress, and light ash brown hair cut short in a shaggy pixie, at her cute little button nose, worn and tattered boots.

The child, Celeste, at five, was not necessarily a pretty little rose, and the creature blinked owlishly at the girl as she shakily stepped forward and took the ball as the man withdrew deeper into the mattress and the tent's corner. Her dark brows furrowed into a frown as the child heard the He-Stranger's coughs, his grunts of pain, and shivering breaths as she heard him violently shake. Celeste was unmoved, and the disturbance did not stir her at all, until a sharp barking command erupted through the tent's entrance, shattering the silence.

"Celeste!" The stocky build of one of the King's comrades and one of Clopin's friends entered, darkening the space even further and his strong, pale hand caught the girl round the shoulder and snatched the red ball out of her hands. "What in the devil's name are you doing here? You're _alone_ and you came out of my sight. Your father would _beat_ you if you were a boy, you know. Go on back outside now. You don't need to be in here, sweet princess. This place is not for the likes of a little girl…"

The little girl obliged half-hearted, daring to peek one last glance over her shoulder as the guard led the little girl back out into the cold winter. "B—but I haven't said my thank you!" she protested, running her tongue the wall of her teeth along the top row and winced as she felt her incredibly sharp incisors.

The guard turned a deaf ear to the five-year-old's protest to her dismay.

"Go on. Be sure to stay where I can see you. I will tell of your thanks. Don't make me say it again." The man urged, resisting his urge to growl in frustration at the thought of such a sweet and gentle soul sharing the same space as their King's newest captive. It was _his_ turn to watch over the wretched creature.

At the shrunken shell of a man nursing wounds the rest of the clan he was unsure to survive, at least not without any of their aid, though Clopin had expressly forbidden it until he and this He-Stranger had shared in a dialogue. The guard glanced at the pair of manacles locked onto his pale wrists, his knuckles cracked and bleeding at the edges when they'd first brought him here.

He'd snarled and growled as savagely as the rest of the prisoners when they'd revived him, screaming and hollering at the top of his lungs, demanding an audience with the King, that he needed to see his pregnant wife, and for a moment, the guard thought for _sure_ this new man was one of their own, he bore the scars, the shadow of the Beast across his somewhat misshapen features, his heightened senses were as Jean's (that was the guard's name, Jean), but he smelt _wrong_.

Acted wrong. Talked wrong. He bore the unmistakable signs of trying to live among the rest of the Parisians, stupid, simple-minded smallfolk that they all were, and this immediately made the others incredibly wary and distrustful. _They need not chain him like this. We're in the middle of the Wolves Wood, he can't escape. What the hell do we need chains for_? Jean thought though The King insisted on it, and the man's wand kept away in his possession for safekeeping, in case he tried anything.

Jean felt his nostrils flared as he smelled the stench of drying blood on the He-Stranger, and his ears perked up at the Stranger's raspy breaths as he coughed, and Jean, in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence, let out a sigh and pinched at the front of his temples with his large thumb and forefinger.

"You'll have to forgive the little girl, monsieur, for her actions. She's come a long way without any sort of companion. We don't have many children in our encampments. She's one of the first…" _With a cold-hearted King and a black shadowy demon_ , is what Jean wanted to say, and he felt his lips curl upward into an animalistic snarl as he thought of some of the more rough-around-the-edges people their King dealt with on a daily basis. The Judge's soldiers, for one thing.

"Surely, she isn't just a little girl," came the Stranger's voice, something between a hushed whisper and a murmur, but far too faint and incredibly weak all the same. If winter were a voice, Jean thought, it would be this He-Stranger's. Sad. "She's only _five_ years old. Is she a…" His voice cracked and trailed off, and Jean flinched as he heard the shirking of chains as the Man gestured with his hands.

" _No_." He felt his pupils dilate as he got the gist of what their King's newest prisoner was asking after. "Her mother's not like that. She would never." His voice was cold and taut. He refused to discuss their own in the presence of a Stranger.

There was a beat. A pause. And then— "And the father? What is her father?" the prisoner asked.

"A carpenter," Jean answered curtly, the edges of his voice clipped and hardened and he swore he heard his conscience within him let out a warning growl from the back of his throat as visions of his precious wife Sophia danced in his mind.

Jean heard the prisoner give out an audible gasp of surprise, barely audible, and the rattling of his chains. It seemed to take an eternity for the Stranger to find his voice, and when he did speak, it seemed much rougher, more subdued. "Mmm. But you have not answered my question, _Jean_ ," the Stranger snarled meanly. "When can I see him?"

The question escaped the Stranger's voice as a low growl and Jean squinted his dark brown eyes at the drop of hurt and hatred lacing throughout their latest captive's tone. Surely, this monster had deeper wounds that went beneath the surface of whatever he was suffering from at the present.

The guard heard the man's chains rattle again as the creature stepped forward into the light, and Jean felt himself give a start and let out a sharp hiss as he got his first good, true look at the He-Stranger which had captured the King's interest so much as to bring him back to their encampments, along with two others and keep them hostage, both human, though he insisted _this_ one be kept in a separate tent.

The boy was handsome, enough, he supposed, with a strong face and chiseled jawline, good cheekbones, and would have been quite the looker if not for a rather unsightly contusion over his left browbone, but the man's cobalt blue eyes, currently red-rimmed at the irises, cracked, darkened circles from lack of sleep and the scope of his injuries,

Clearly, the King perceived this one to be a much bigger threat to keep him isolated as such, and Jean let a snarl escape his lips as he caught sight of the man's tall form and fiery mop of thick, coarse ginger hair. He _knew_ this man. This _monster_. The bell ringer. He'd heard of whispers of this one from other members in their tribe.

Or rather, knew of the man's father. Of Judge Frollo. The _bastard_ who dared to speak out against the King and held prejudiced views of their kind, and his mind, like father, like son, and the apple never fell far from the tree, as the human expression in the wizarding world went. Wasn't that the saying?

Is _that_ how it went? But Jean had no time to ponder what Clopin had found interesting enough in a dying monstrous wretch of a creature shunned from their society, though it had made its way to Jean's own curiosity as well when the man spoke again.

"When will he see me?" the He-Stranger growled angrily, the shadow of the Monster within him dancing across his mostly handsome but lined face as he leaned forward from his seat on the edge of the hard mattress's thin and worn frame. The voice had risen, dark, firm, and on the last vestiges of its patience.

Jean's brows furrowed into a thick frown. "Soon. Whenever he wills it."

"Then he's too slow!" he bellowed, slamming his fist down on the railing. He was panting heavily now, and Jean hoped he'd not need to use force against him, not in his current physical condition. "Tell him to see me. **NOW**!"

The chains rattled as he lunged, a cry of rage on his lips, though given the chains were bolted to the wall and he had no knife or weapon of any kind anymore, he posed no threat to Jean, and therefore, the guard was unfazed by the monstrous man's snarling and savage growling.

"The faster he sees you, the faster is your execution, have you not thought of that? He would have you hanged, monsieur," Jean demanded in retort, quirking a brow towards the Judge's accursed ward's direction.

Silence brooded before their captive let out a relieved sigh. "Better, then."

But Jean did not remain convinced. He knelt in this darkness and leaned forward himself to better look into the man's light cobalt eyes, darkening to an almost cerulean and burning bright with anger and a raw intensity that he wasn't sure what to make of.

"Is it?" he challenged, biting the inside wall of his cheek. "And just who the hell are _you_ , that you would welcome death at the hands of the King than postpone it?" The chains gave a rattle, signaling to Jean that the other man had stretched from the far corners of the tent and came forward and stepped further into what little dim light was wafting in from the opened tent flap. Close enough for Jean to make out the details of the Stranger's face, every line, every feature.

His hardened face fit the icy fire of rage and antagonizing hurt in his voice. "A man discarded by your own kind because I failed to save one of your own from a death that I could not prevent, much as I tried. I wanted to. Shunned too from the rest of the world. A man wanted dead at the hands of someone else because I have something that he _wants_ ," he growled, and Jean felt his hackles raise, and a low snarl escaping his lips as his lips curled upwards and he raised his knife, preparing to plunge his dagger straight through the man's heart if he tried to fight, though he relented as the man dipped into his thick woolen brown tunic and pulled out a chain.

Around his neck on a simple silver chain rested a beautiful elegant yellow gold ring, though something about this simple piece of jewelry was… _different_. It was almost… _glowing_. Jean blinked owlishly at the little ring in shock, his lips parted open slightly. Jean had never quite seen anything like it. He wondered briefly if magic was involved.

Someone clearly wanted this creature to find them. It was truly ingenious, something he never would have thought to do in his life. Jean found his curiosity piqued, and the question escaped his lips before he could stop it. "What is it that this man wants?"

The man's darkened brown eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, and he did not answer.

"If your _King_ is to kill me for my crimes, whatever it is that I have done to warrant a death sentence, and I am to die at his hand, then let it be now. But if he would delay my execution, then tell your _King_ ," here, he spat the word as though it were poison that had settled upon his tongue, "to grant a dying man's wish."

Jean frowned. Who in the hell _was_ this man? "And that is…?" he clarified. He watched as the man turned to face him, and there was no trace of tears, not in his eyes or in track marks on his reddening face. The He-Stranger's eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. At that moment, he was already far away.

His eyes held a deadness, a horrible stillness. He had judged Jean already and, in his eyes, the man only saw cool hatred in the He-Stranger's icy glower. His eyes were a knife in Jean's ribs, the sharp point digging deeper. Where there had been love was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with the void, he had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with - raw anger.

The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing like he was fighting something back and losing. When he finally found his voice, it was rough, coarse, and trembling as he struggled to restrain the beast within him, something that Jean was all too familiar with, and he spat the words as though they were poison and spat them through clenched and gritted teeth.

"To see my father's own head on a _spike_ if I have that ability. He killed me. Took my wife," and Jean shivered at the coldness laced throughout his quiet, reserved tone.

"Your name?" Jean prodded, gruffly though not necessarily unkindly. "What's your name?"

The man hesitated, and he finally relented after a long silence that felt as though it hung in the air. When he spoke, his voice shook and warbled in anger, laced to the brim with wrath. Jean heard the cathedral's bell ringer huff in frustration, and his cobalt orbs were merely glistening pinpricks in the darkness of the prisoner's tent.

"My _name_ is immaterial to this conversation, but if you _must_ know it before I die, then it's…Quasimodo, sole bell ringer of our Lady of Peace, Notre Dame de Paris, husband to the Lady Belle Dupont, of which my wife is currently _missing_ , presumed dead or held captive at the hands of none other than our own Prince of these lands, and if your King grants me my wish to allow me to live long enough to see this through and find my pregnant wife, then I want _my_ face to be the last thing on this earth that Frollo sees before I send him down to the seventh _hell_ myself with me."


	38. A King's Dilemma

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN**

The battered and broken man limped from the tent, though not without great difficulty, and it was the rattling of his prisoner's chains that broke Monsieur Clopin Trouillefou, self-proclaimed King of the Romani people, his Court of Miracles, out of his swirl of darkening thoughts as he looked towards his prize. Though before he could so much as open his mouth to speak to Notre Dame de Paris's sole bell ringer, who was admittedly looking worse for wear, the chains currently binding the man's wrists together gave another sharp clank as he shifted.

His chained arms were wrapped around his stomach like he was holding his intestines in and to be honest, his men had beaten him into unconsciousness so bad earlier when they'd first escorted him to his Court that they might as well have just left him to the wolves in the damned bloody woods, if not for sweet Agathe. A soul too innocent and saw the goodness in everyone, even in the accursed wretch in front of him.

Clopin silently seethed and ground his teeth in anger. This man had failed to save his cousin. He _owed_ him. Clopin pondered what exactly to do with the demonic whelp now that he'd caught him, resting his cheek in his tanned first and was looking rather bored, as though he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

Satisfying his urge in a bordello, perhaps, but not _here_. The King curled the edges of his thin and slightly wormy lips upward and bared his teeth in a vicious snarl as he inched his face towards Quasimodo's cold, hardened face, though Clopin after well over two years of knowing the boy now, was not at all fooled.

The way a muscle in his jaw and behind his eyelid twitched told the King of the Romani's that the boy was barely fighting back against his temper as it was, and he was surprised the wretch hadn't broken out of his chains. He could, easily, with one swift movement, and it was puzzling Clopin to no end as to why the younger man had not already attempted it. His thick dark brows knitted together in quandary as he pondered this development.

He supposed he was supposed to love the man in front of him. This red-haired demonic wretch who'd saved his people from a lifetime of persecution. At least for a few months until Paris's King took a harder stance on people entering his country illegally, which made it more difficult for more of them to come and go from Paris as they pleased.

Admittedly, not much of an improvement. So, with that said, how could he learn to love the man who had 'freed' his people and yet did not save his cousin? His answer? He _didn't_. Clopin's nostrils flared in agitation as he rested against one of the wooden poles propping up the tent and let out a low growl.

"Pitvio," he barked towards the man acting as a guard towards the redhaired wretch and had dragged the younger man in by the lengths of his chains. "Just look at what you've brought me. Another _bastard_ ," he drolled, sounding unimpressed as he swiveled his head almost lazily so to regard his fellow Romani. Notre Dame's bell ringer made no comment, though his posture straightened and if Clopin wasn't mistaken, the man's chin jutted out slightly defiantly, his sky-blue orbs darkening to almost a cerulean hue in color as he too silently seethed, though Clopin thought Quasimodo's anger here was unfounded.

_He_ was not the one who had lost everything when Esmeralda perished in the fire. Clopin's face remained impassive, and he offered Notre Dame's sole bell ringer, that demon, that monster, the most pallid of welcomes.

"He isn't looking so well, is he?" he commented, crinkling his nose in disgust as he looked the taller and more intimidating man once over down his slender but crooked nose. "Don't you think we should have left him back in the woods to bleed out, yes? A fitting end for a coward who would not stand up to his father. A betrayer," he snarled, spitting the words, hissing them more than speaking. "And you know what we do to betrayers around these parts, boy…"

Clopin fell silent and waited to see if the monster would respond. The King watched as the boy flinched, though the redhaired bell ringer offered up not a word, and that in it alone of itself already proved that the boy was able to think rationally through his haze of pain. He might— _might_ —stand a chance, after all. Just maybe…

Clopin let out a mock sigh, shaking his head in disappointment as he was rewarded with the briefest flashes of anger from the wretch. Good. He wanted him to suffer. The boy, for his part, remained stock-still, standing in front of Clopin, battered, broken, and on the brink of collapse, but he refused to cower.

This one would not yield. Clopin furrowed his dark brows in a frown as he turned back around and resisted the urge to snort at the look of immense hatred burning bright as anger in Quasi's blue eyes. "There's no need for that, boy," he growled, and he snapped his fingers, pointing towards Pitvio, who shot his King a look of utter disbelief, though dared not question his leader for a second time.

Quasi emanated a tense exhale of relief the moment the manacles were removed from his wrists, which the skin was very nearly rubbed off raw, bleeding and cracked from the pressure of the iron-wrought chains against his skin and shot Clopin a withering look that, had he the ability, would have turned the tanned-skinned Romani man to stone like one of the cathedral's gargoyles.

The King made a show of pretending to preen at his blackened nails, all the while studying his captive as the boy finally relented and took the seat opposite Clopin, upon seeing the man was not going to make a move to stand. He shot Quasi what the redhaired bell ringer could only describe as a wolfish, almost predatory grin. "I suppose you might be wanting to know how you ended up in chains and back from the dead in my Court of Miracles, yes?"

Quasi made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a grunt and lifted his chin sanguinely to regard Clopin with a look of immense distrust.

"This _is_ a place of miracles," he growled, no warmth in his voice. "Is it not?" he snapped, flexing his fingers, and hissing as a jolt of pain from his wrists shot up his arms and down his spine. He winced, though made no sound at all.

"Indeed." Clopin fell silent and when Quasimodo did not respond, he let out a growl and pointed a slender finger at Notre Dame de Paris's bell ringer. "I always knew there was something strange of you, wretch," Clopin snarled, curling his gums upward and revealing yellowing teeth and blackened gums. "Who would have _ever_ guessed it. The own accursed bastard son of Judge Frollo himself."

He turned towards Pitvio, who was in the midst of pouring him a wineskin of red wine and raised the wineskin in a mock salute to his comrade.

Quasi bit down hard on his tongue hard enough that he tasted the metallic tang of iron and the thick scent of copper flooded his nostrils. When he drew in a breath to speak, he visibly flinched as the sharp rattling sound of his lungs caused him to gasp in surprise. Though he remained otherwise quite still, his gaze unabashed and unwavering, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His neck and shoulders were still unable to curb his violent spells of shivering and his fever.

The wound near his right ribcage and near his thigh had begun to send white-hot flares of pain up and down his slightly twisted spine, curling the tips of his toes in his brown leather boots, no matter how thick the bandages were.

His thick mop of coarse, fiery red hair stuck up in tufts, disheveled, with a clear mind of their own amidst all the chaos, and he was sure, though he could not see it, he could feel it, that he suffered from dark rings below his blue eyes, his cheeks sunken in and hollowed. If there was ever a time when he thought that he truly lived up to his monstrous appearance, Quasi thought it was now.

Clopin spoke, startling Notre Dame's bell ringer out of his inner thoughts. The King leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, and upon setting his wineskin down on a small nearby wooden table, furrowed his brows.

"Now, I want to know…what about seeking revenge on your father is so damned bloody important. Is it because he holds a vested interest in your wife? Hmm? Is that it? There are still quite a few mysteries surrounding you, Quasi, so why don't you tell me the truth," Clopin spoke up dryly. "You're dying anyway."

Quasi blinked owlishly at the Romani King, feeling as though he had quite misheard. _No. No, no, no, I am mishearing this. Father wouldn't. He—he wouldn't. He might not approve of what I have done, but he would never_.

And it was then that the snakelike voice in the back of his mind spoke up, a voice which sounded too much like Frollo's for his own comfort and hissed. _But you're a bastard, you blind, bloody fool. He could and tried to cross you off without any consciousness on his part. You have the wounds to prove it. He has it his way, and he would take everything from you. First your life, then your wife_.

And with it, the murderous laughter of Frollo rang in his ears. Quasi felt like his mind was flaring with wildfire, nostrils flaring angrily.

_He can't. He can't_. The King sighed, once again jolting Quasi out of his foggy haze of repressed memories. "It is a pity that you failed to kill him, boy, when you had the chance. Were I in a better position, I'd be more lenient. But…"

Clopin paused for effect, and Quasi ground his teeth and throttled his urge to roar like an enraged dragon as the Romani man tapped his chin.

"Pitvio," he called out, his hoarse voice more of a bark than a summons, to which the guard standing just outside the tent's entrance flap gave a nod. "If you had your son bound and chained by a public enemy, how handsome a price would you name to get your bastard back in one piece? Twenty shillings?"

Though the guard did not get a chance to answer as Quasi snorted in response and rolled his eyes, growling in frustration as he carded back a lock of fiery red hair that had the unceasingly annoying habit of falling into his one good eye without fail, no matter how short Sisters Alice or Maria trimmed his hair.

"My father will _not_ ransom money for the likes of _me_. I am _a Monster_. Almost-Made, and here you sit, considering bringing me hostage to scare Frollo?" At this, Quasi almost laughed in disbelief at the own words he spoke. The bell ringer turned his head to the side and coughed, spitting on the ground near Clopin's feet, trying his hardest to ignore the blood, and at this point, he didn't even care if he was hung for the gesture or beheaded. Let him.

If Clopin Trouillefou was disgusted by it, the man was adept at hiding his cringing, though when Quasi shifted in his seat and turned back around, there was a look of dawning outrage growing in the man's darkened umber orbs.

"You—"

"Bastard? Yes, I **AM**!" Quasi roared, curling his hand into a fist and banging them flat on the table. The gesture did not elicit a response out of Clopin, whose facial expression was impassive, though the guard's fingers twitched on the hilt of what looked like a small hunting knife in a sheath worn around his thigh. He rose from his chair so fast to appear directly in front of his captor that in his haste, he overturned it, where it clattered to the ground with a loud clang.

The pressure in the bell ringer's head felt like it finally exploded with a heart-wrenching shout of agony and a gash on the man's neck as Quasi felt his hand move of its own accord and come to twine around Trouillefou's neck, just as poison ivy would wind its tendrils around the stone pillar of Notre Dame.

Quasimodo wound his bloodied fingers around the man's throat, seething with anger, applying just enough pressure to enforce his intended message, but not quite enough to cut off the air supply to the man's lungs. At least…not yet.

"My wife has been taken by our land's Prince," he growled, as a series of memories rolled within his mind like thunder, though only one he focused on.

Sweet Belle. Umber-eyed Belle, the most beautiful thing that could ever happen to an accursed wretch such as him, and now this man would keep her from him? He let out a growl as Clopin Trouillefou parted his thin lips to speak.

Clopin nodded. "I know. I saw the man's carriage leave with her the day she was forcefully removed from her precious sanctuary," he spat, no warmth in his tone. "I—I've heard the stories about you, boy," he growled. "I saw with my own eyes what you did. You broke free of your chain restrains but you did not save her. Though the stories of you in the taverns," he managed to choke out through gasping breaths. "They all get one thing wrong. You've sad eyes. For a _killer_."

His final statement was the breaking point of Quasi's last thread of patience. At this, the cathedral's bell ringer's throat dried up instantly.

"Father is the one who _killed_ her! I tried to _save_ Esmeralda!" Quasi bellowed, a year of repressed memories coming to the surface and he clenched his eyes shut. "I did not kill her, though I might as well have! Her blood is on _my_ hands just as it is his, and not a day goes by where I wish that things were not different. I cannot change the past! What happened to her was just as my fault as it was his. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would. Why do you _hate_ me so much, Clopin? What _more_ do you want of me?" he snarled, grinding his teeth and fixing Clopin with a pointed stare, and he was not even aware that he'd used just a tad of his overwhelming strength to seize a fistful of the man's jerkin and hoist him upwards off the ground, just so the tips of his boots grazed the surface.

"King, I would gladly take off his tongue for this insolence! Just say the word!" the man called Pitvio protested, his fingers twitching on the hilt of his little hunting knife as he itched to draw it.

Clopin snorted and rolled his eyes, and it was this gesture that caused Quasi's grip around the column of the man's throat to slacken and he released him. He coughed wildly for a minute or two, a hand over his throat, before straightening up and tossing his straight black ponytail over his shoulders.

"And what good would that do me?" growled Clopin, staring at Pitvio as though the man had sprouted a pair of antlers. "This wretch, like it or not, is the only chance of ridding the entire city of Paris of the Judge for good this time."

Pitvio did not answer, merely proceeded to bow his head as a sign of submission and respect to his leader and ducked back out the entrance of the tent's flap. Clopin watched the man leave and shook his head in slight disgust.

"Ah, but God. I could never be like him. Pitvio is a good man, a righteous man, boy, and you ask me, he does not belong in our encampment. But he is a good thief, though he despises every second of it, and because he knows our hideout, I cannot send him away, for if he were to be caught by the wrong sort of people..." Clopin clucked his tongue and turned to Quasi. "But perhaps…you could still be of use. I did have you saved, did I not? You are only _alive_ because I commanded of Agathe to save you," he added, and as if summoned by a spell, the tent flap opened and in stepped a young woman in her early forties, her hair covered by a headscarf, dressed in rags, with a lined, careworn, but still nevertheless quite a pretty face.

"Given that you allowed Esmeralda to perish at the hands of your own father, I was more than content to leave you out in those woods as food for the wolves, but Agathe here convinced me to let her save you."

He fell silent a moment and turned towards the beggar woman, who said nothing, though she offered Quasi an omniscient smile that made him feel uneasy.

"You are at my mercy, Quasimodo, and yet, I get the feeling that had you the opportunity, you would carve out my lungs right here where I stand with those dagger eyes. Is that why you ended up bleeding out on the snow? You kept glaring at some poor fool who meant to gut you like the wretch we all know you to be?" Clopin growled, clenching his jaw shut and waiting for him to speak.

Quasi bristled, curling his wounded hands into shaking fists and resting them at his sides in an effort to prevent himself from striking out at the man with pure rancor. "Your candor will not submit my father to submission. He will never ransom for the likes of me. The Judge tried to have me _killed_ , Clopin."

Clopin's jaw tensed and locked up, tighter than rigor mortis, though he seemed for the most part unimpressed with the bell ringer's crude statement.

"You would…mean to watch him die?" Clopin asked, sensing that the boy's tone was laced with ire, and he could practically see the younger man shaking with just the sheer effort to restrain himself from flying into a rage.

"Yes. If you let me go. He has played a part in allowing my wife to be forcefully removed from our home. He would take away the only good thing in an otherwise desolate existence," Quasi growled. "I have no love left for Father. He killed Esmeralda, and now… he would steal my Belle away from me too. _No_."

"Good." Clopin signaled he understood the younger man's words by offering the redhaired bell ringer a curt nod of his head. "Pledge to me your will, boy, that you will rid Paris of this heathen of a judge, and I can promise you that your wounds would be hardened scars by the morrow, and…oh. You'll be wanting this," he added, the edges of his lips curling upwards in a twisted sneer.

He snapped his fingers together and the King did not have to wait long as a petite young woman, a tiny little slip of a blonde thing, entered into the tent, face cast downward, and the simple smudge of dirt on her cheeks did nothing to take away from the young blonde woman's natural beauty; her high cheekbones and good jawline. Her blonde locks the color of golden-wheat was cropped incredibly short, as short as a young boy's and her bangs fell in stray wisps and strands just above her delicately shaped brows.

Her simple floor-length long-sleeved woolen brown dress was tattered and torn, brown clogs scuffed and worn with years of wear and tear, and she shivered, though her violent shaking spell ceased the second Agathe draped a bright indigo blue shawl over the young blonde's slender shoulders. When the young woman lifted her chin slightly and caught a glimpse of Quasi's slightly misshapen silhouette in the dim light of the tent, she gave a muffled squeak of fear and Quasi could have sworn that he heard her whimper.

"This _delightful_ little dove is one of my brightest thieves and certainly the prettiest. I caught her trying to pick my own _pocket_ a few weeks ago, and well." Clopin's lips curled into a grin that sent a tremor of revulsion down Quasi's spine. "It was either join me or suffer a thief's fate." He made the sign of cutthroat and Quasi visibly flinched, annoyed.

Quasi huffed in frustration and regarded his attention back towards the visibly frightened young blonde, who was adamantly refusing to meet his gaze. "Your name?" Quasi offered, lowering his voice, and emanating a tense exhale through his nose, hoping that he sounded kind, though fully aware that his voice was pressured with ire. He just wanted to find Belle, to know her baby was safe and unharmed. To see her again. To feel her lips move in sync with his.

"M—Madellaine, mon…monsieur," she whispered, and for a moment, Quasi felt floored. Monsieur. Aside from Belle and Esmeralda, this young blonde who looked to be, now that he was getting a good look at her features, not that much younger than him, maybe by a year or two, was the first to treat him with any semblance of respect. "Madellaine de Barreau. If my King wishes me to escort you to the castle's property, then that is his command, and I will see you get there, monsieur. I have a personal matter there anyways that I should like to…check upon, if it pleases you, while we are there. My—my twin sister M—Maria de Barreau has employment at the Prince's castle as the man's…hearth keep."

Judging by the way the petite little blonde crinkled her nose in disgust and pulled a face at the utterance of the last two words, momentarily forgetting her fear of Quasi's towering and somewhat intimidating physical appearance, it became clear to Notre Dame's bell ringer that her sister was more than likely more than just Prince Adam's 'personal hearth keep.' Madellaine let out a sigh.

"Indeed." The blonde and the bell ringer both swiveled their heads to regard the Romani King, who was looking rather bored with the turn their conversation had taken and was resting his cheek in his fist. "The young lady knows the way to our Prince's shining castle and would see you escorted there by my command."

Quasi nodded and felt the familiar chill that had been plaguing him ever since he had awoken, thinking that he was quite certain that he had died.

He could not quite determine whether it was fear or excitement that twisted in the pit of his churning stomach, but he knew that he wanted this.

His soul was already damned, and his father deserved Hell more than any other living being that Quasimodo had ever known in his limited exposure of other people, so who was he to deny the Romani King his wish of seeing Frollo dead? The beauty of _vengeance_. What a sweet and bittersweet concept. Truly.

Quasi found his head nodding agreement and complying with the King's demands of its own accord, no longer taking direction from his mind, though he could feel the fierce sparkle of a burning intensity welling in his sky-blue orbs.

Clopin moved towards the other end of the tent and motioned for Agathe, who Quasi had not even felt move to come up to stand beside him, a hand near the small hump on his right shoulder, and he jumped, surprised by her appearance. It unnerved him that he had not even heard the lady move at all.

The young blonde squeaked and practically stumbled over herself in her haste to exit the tent as Agathe motioned for the young Barreau woman to follow her out, and Quasimodo stiffened involuntarily as he felt the girl's shoulder accidentally brush against his. But before he passed through the curtains and back out into the bitterly cold December winds of winter, the king of the Romani people called out to Notre Dame's sole bell ringer, having him on pause.

Quasi shifted slightly to regard the self-proclaimed king as he spoke in a somber, quiet tone.

"It has been said to me once that love is the death of a man's duty. I just want to make sure this… _incident_ with your father will not become a conflict of interest. But that…is my deal. What I am asking you to do is no small feat, but I believe you to be the only one close enough who can get within ten feet of the paranoid man these days. This is the way. The price of your freedom _and_ your life. In exchange, I and my men will spare you, and you are free to find your wife and return home to your precious sanctuary," Clopin growled angrily.

Quasi swallowed down hard past the growing lump in his throat and felt his heart, that damned stubborn corded muscle beat relentlessly within the confines of his chest, and he could feel the strange beggar woman, Agathe, still standing beside him and throwing him an all-knowing smile that he was not at all sure what to make of, though given the King was awaiting his answer, he had no time to ponder it.

"I have no love left for my adopted father, Clopin. He took _everything_ from me. I would see him dead for this. I give you my word," he snapped vehemently, answering the King through gritted teeth.

"Excellent." Clopin did not smile and folded his hands together and wound his arms behind his back and rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots. He fixed the cathedral's bell ringer with a pointed and cold glower.

Quasi scoffed and carded his fingers through his fiery tuft of ginger hair and turned his back on the Romani King, when he asked of him a final question.

"And your sweet little Belle. What about your _wife_?"


	39. Of Jealous Souls

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT**

The door to the Prince's private chambers in the West Wing slowly creaked open on its hinges, and his personal hearth keep, a petite blonde, Maria de Barreau, with elfin-like features and long blonde, luscious curls that cascaded to her shoulders, slowly poked her head around the door, spotting her handsome Prince.

The Prince seldom left his precious palace or its grounds, save for occasional trips to Paris to dabble in court with the other dukes, lords, and their ladies. For him, all floors were marble, what else would they be? All stair rails were ornate mahogany, carved, and polished so that it shined. Family portraits were painted in oils and hung in gold frames. Furniture was all handmade by master craftsmen. Nothing ever got dirty.

He had never seen dust in his twenty some odd years of life. The air was scented with fresh flowers every day of the year, yet he had never seen a flower ever die or wilt. Food was always perfect and served precisely on time, but he had never seen a kitchen. Each room was as big as a house, and each came equipped with a tray of small silver bells, in case he should need to call for service.

Maria hesitated, stepping inside, opening the door. There he was. _Silent_ like the shadow the hearth keep knew him to be.

Prince Adam remained unstirred, his back facing to her, though she knew he heard her. The man had hearing better than that of the wolves that lived in the forest that bordered the edge of his familial estate. Maria took a moment to inhale the intoxicating scent of spiced wine, brick, and the smell of pinewood.

Judging by his posture, Prince Adam did not seem to be itching to rectify certain… ' _needs'_ that he typically summoned Maria to his chambers for.

But that didn't mean that Maria didn't know how to set the man in the mood. She knew more than any of the other maids throughout the castle what he liked. Where to touch him, all the right things to say to cause the heat between his legs to overwhelm him, knowing the pace of her Prince's desires, his heart.

She was his favorite servant, out of all the man's prior 'hearth keeps.' Which was perhaps the only reason the blonde little maid was still breathing. Maria de Barreau was a beautiful woman, but only on the outside. She was highly practiced at seduction and had been ever since she turned twenty.

With her pale, northern French looks and high cheekbones and good jawline, it was all too simple.

Nothing so pretty could possibly harm you, right? Mostly, Maria just let the other men feel in charge, guiding the conversation with unnoticed prompts. It was oftentimes only seconds before her new target was practically jumping through rings of fire to please her.

Her face and just a little bit of cleavage could get her anything and anyone.

No one knew how the blonde would take a rejection because it had never happened. Even her hair, which was shorter than most Parisian women that Maria knew, though last time she had seen her dear sister, Madellaine, the girl had also copied her older sister's movements and cut it off, keeping it out of the way and easier to work unencumbered.

Her hair, cut short in a pixie, wasn't that bland color that was just a shade nicer than the white of old age, but rather, it was streaked with warm reddish hues and butterscotch. It gave Maria some warmth, complementing her pale face rather than making her look washed out.

She was a siren leading everyone to sudden happiness. The beauty with the forever young ocean blue eyes. Maria was twenty-six, six years older than their newest 'guest' that had arrived but three or four nights ago to the castle. Old enough to assume the role of a maid and gain employment at the Prince's castle to avoid starving on the streets. She had practically _begged_ her younger sister, Madellaine, to join her here, though the little whelp _refused_.

Her sister was deathly afraid of the Prince's brutality and fiendish ways, having heard the tales, the rumors in the taverns of Paris of how he was reportedly fond of 'pretty faces.' And oh, the things he did to those select few maids with 'pretty faces.'

All of them were true, though Maria did not understand why her Lena _squandered_ this opportunity.

The Prince paid his servants quite well. _So_ well, in fact, that it was _more_ than enough for Maria to move out of the servants' quarters and into a home of her own at the village that bordered the edge of these woods, the same village, it was rumored, that this new little Belle came from. Though Maria adamantly refused, staying put.

She was not about to leave her precious Prince. Maria just couldn't.

Speaking of her Prince… the young blonde little hearth keep was jolted out of her musings as she looked Prince Adam's way. She took him all in. His regality.

He was seated in his favorite armchair, with his back facing her, his face towards the window of his chambers here in the West Wing. Adam seemed to be in an unusually somber mood today, which was rather unlike her Prince.

Lax and grim altogether. His head was resting on the knuckles of his folded arm, his elbow perched on the side of his armchair. To her, as unstirred and unflinching as he was, it looked as though Prince Adam was carved on this post, inanimate and sullen for God only knew how long he had been up here.

Long enough, the hearth keep surmised, for the various parchments on the table to have blown about the man's chambers in a state of severe disarray, all the cause of the wind which was breathing through the same window he was currently looking out of, long enough to have the candle in its prong be lifeless.

Maria de Barreau furrowed her light blonde brows into a sullen frown as she took a cautious, half-step forward and set down the tray that she had brought bearing a bowl of soup and a half-loaf of bread from the kitchens.

Her eye caught sight of a piece of parchment, its wax seal already broken, near the edge of her boot and she would have stepped on it had the paper not rustled due to the breeze, making a noise, which caught her attention. Her scowl deepening, Maria slowly knelt to the floor and picked it up.

As much as she itched to read what the scribblings before her blue eyes meant, she couldn't.

The likes of her had never been taught to read by a maester _or_ her sister. She was not exactly as well-educated and versed in prose and literature as the Prince's new 'guest', Belle de Dupont was if the rumors of her held true. This Belle was proving to be a prickly problem for Barreau. She was certainly fairer and prettier than her, and she could read and write, besides.

Maria was all too entirely interested in what vested interest the Prince held with a She-Stranger like Belle. One who, it was rumored, to be married to an accursed wretch, a demonic beast of a man who was more demon than man.

What the hearth keep had assumed to be a shadow as she crept towards the window, having to almost crane her delicate, swan-like neck to see what her Prince was regarding, took the form of a girl. But not just any young beauty.

 _Her_. She was fully eclipsed by the shade of the wall of the gardens' borders, the rose gardens, but then she moved into the half-light of the winter morning, and there she was. Belle, in all her glory, in black mourning gown of velvet and lace, her pretty face shrouded in a veil, mourning the death of the wretch. Maria felt her lips curl upwards into a twisted sneer.

 _Whom does she weep for?_ Maria thought, her interest piqued, as she bit the inside wall of her cheek in contemplative thought _. The wretch? That demon? Surely not._

What such beauty could see in a monstrous creature like her supposed husband was, for he was rumored to be the subject of talk throughout Paris.

The young hearth keep had not been back to Paris, to her home, in a few years now, not since she had last spoken with her sister, Madellaine, and begged her sibling short of fallen on bended knee and pleading with her to come with her, to let Father deal with his debts on his own, to make their own way in life.

Though she knew from gossiping tongues throughout the castle, courtesy of the Prince's other servants, that the man was rumored to be a creature of some wicked, vile curse. For his visage was such an unsightly sight to behold, most turned their faces away in shame or fear, not wanting to look it in the eye.

A hideous creature. The fair-skinned young blonde hearth keep felt her brows knit together in a quandary as she allowed her mind to wander to thoughts of the rumored hunchback of Paris's great Lady of Peace, Notre Dame de Paris.

Maria had heard many things about the mysterious, accursed wretch in question. Somethings good, but most not so much. She wondered how much of the tales were true, and which were falsehoods. If he had really attempted to save a Romani woman from burning to death on a pyre in the town square.

If how, when he had failed, he had attempted to take his own life, and was unsuccessful, given one of the nuns were rumored to have found him by the River Seine. _A pity he did not succeed_ , Maria thought darkly, frowning angrily.

The topic, while a difficult one to maintain in conversation, was admittedly, to the young blonde hearth keep, somewhat of intrigue to her.

She could only imagine siccing the Prince's prized hounds on the wretch, watching as its skin was torn from its scalp, hearing the monster's screams.

Oh, such sweet, sweet _bliss_. It was as music to her ears, those hollers. Maria could only _hope_ for such an opportunity come her way one day. If she should ever have the blessed fortune from God to meet the accursed wretch, aye, but how the young blonde longed to see the creature's lifeforce drain from his body, and the light leaves his eyes.

Maria heaved a sigh and set the mysterious piece of parchment down next to the tray upon the small wooden table and took another step forward. The petite little hearth keep made well sure her footsteps were audible.

"My Prince, here you are," Maria murmured in a seductive purr, her voice adapted by confidence, given her rank here in the castle.

She was acknowledged the moment Prince Adam's head slowly swiveled to the side, his knuckles slowly parting from his head as her Prince turned to look at Maria. Maria realized she had been holding her gaze too long as she too, looked out the window, and the young blonde felt the color drain from her face as it blanched.

The Prince's face was one of an arrogant triumph as the man smirked, with Adam not even having the decency within him to be considered embarrassed. But then again, why _should_ he? There was nothing whatsoever that was considered romantic between the two of them. All he did was bed her nightly. Used her to satiate his more carnal, baser desires.

And Maria _liked_ it. So far, as Maria joined Prince Adam in their shared listless staring out the window of the East Wing upon the Prince's latest obsession, this strange material of beauty, whenever Maria's inquisitive, cobalt-blue orbs landed on Belle, the hearth keep allowed herself to hate this new young woman, this She-Stranger.

She felt nothing for the brunette whenever the girl's face wore a forlorn expression, one of sadness, feeling angry if she resembled anything that was even remotely close to happiness, though considered she mourned for her 'husband', Maria had yet to see Belle smile, and Maria plainly aimed to _keep_ it that way.

Maria bit down hard on the inside wall of her cheek and then her tongue as she craned her neck to look out the window, watching, and though the thick veil worn over the young woman's face made it nigh impossible to make out the details of her face, the young blonde liked to imagine her face crumpling.

Tears pouring down her eyes and running down those pretty cheeks of hers. _Suffering_. Though Maria could not currently see the girl's brown eyes, she had caught glimpses of the young woman meandering throughout the castle.

Always with Monsieur Cogsworth or Lumiere, _never_ to wander _alone_. She could tell the tension that controlled Belle's face had always been a part of her life. Were someone to take that away from her, and likely the auburn-haired beauty would reinvent it simply to keep her status quo.

Belle Dupont was a woman of nobility and regal bearing, everything that Maria hated because she knew that she would never have it as a lowborn.

Belle's high, delicate cheekbones, small nose, luminescent dark brown eyes like a bar of rich chocolate, creamy smooth pale skin like whipped cow's milk, and silky dark brown tresses that cascaded down her back in gentle waves. She was rather petite and dainty, standing at around 5'2 if Maria had to hazard a guess.

The Dupont girl had a slender, curving waist, which was more than many women around these parts could claim, Maria included among them, and that was just another reason for hating Belle Dupont so damned bloody much. She had childbearing hips, whereas Maria, unfortunately, did not.

Maria took all of Belle's appearance in and drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as the girl slowly lifted her veil. Just her black velvet gown embroidered with gold brocade at the dress's scoop neckline and at the edges of the long flared trumpet sleeves would feed her for a whole _year_ , and she didn't particularly like how her soft, ivory shoulders were exposed and the girl's dark brown hair fell down her back in graceful waves. Her lips had been carefully tinted red, and her pale skin was flawless.

 _Yet another reason to hate the wench_ , thought Maria meanly. The hearth keep watched as Adam had a strange look in his eyes. A glance, it should be noted, that Maria longed to see whenever _she_ came to his chambers.

The man had such a look of lust there. The hearth keep watched in silence a moment at that beautiful face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. The complexion of his skin going well with his ocean-like eyes. He looked down for a moment, pouring himself a goblet of wine and bringing the alcohol to his slender lips, studying Maria intently. The burning sensation pouring down his throat, creating a warm feeling deep inside his stomach, similar to how she felt when she was with him. When he was inside of her.

And now, they could be together again. God, she missed him, though it had only been a few days since their last rendezvous.

"Found you," Maria repeated, slowly closing the door behind her, and coming to stand in front of his armchair.

"Wasn't hard, was it?" he growled, his fingers curling into claws around the arm of his chair. He paused and looked at her as she began to undress, stepping out of her dress and shift and letting the garments fall to the floor at her feet, stepping out of her clogs and straddling his lap.

She tugged at his jerkin and shirt, struggling to remove them, pushing him hard back against the chair. He sank down into the cushion of the chair, letting out a groan as she shifted and ground against his thighs, still continuing her act of straddling his hips. He moved to stand as if to get up from the chair and leave her, but Maria pushed him back down.

"Maria, what in God's name do you think you're…?" he snarled, but she did not give him a chance to answer as she kissed his lips.

She was momentarily surprised as she felt Adam tense and stiffen at the gesture and felt herself relax as his hands came up to her neck and found purchase in the back of her hair, tugging on a curl, eliciting a startled gasp of pain from her.

"That _hurt_ ," she pouted playfully, though there was no mistaking the teasing sheen that danced across her cobalt blue eyes that always used to ignite that familiar flame of fire within Adam's ice-cold glacier blue eyes. She pulled away slightly, pulling back to study Adam's face, to look into his eyes.

He smelled of pine and wood, though there was no disguising the thick stench of a bloodbath, how when she parted her lips and captured his mouth in a passionate kiss, the coppery tang and its taste settled and lingered on her tongue. She wondered if the current object of the Prince's desires was as much of a prudish _wench_ as the hearth keep suspected this Belle to be. Maria, however, was _not_. She would do anything Adam asked of her so that he wouldn't tire of her like he was bound to with Belle Dupont.

Their lips fitted together perfectly—as if they were meant for each other. Moving against each other, feeling each other. She let out a whimper of pleasure as she felt Adam grab the back of her neck, growling in the kiss as Maria let out a moan, shifting against his thigh.

Adam groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, biting at the tender skin there, hard enough to draw blood. " _No_ ," he growled, his voice becoming clipped and hard. "Maria…no…Belle, she…" he murmured lowly into the shell of her ear. Maria stiffened, ceasing her movements, Adam still fully clothed.

She let out a growl and wrenched herself off his lap. He just stared up at her, mouth agape in shock and…utter rage.

"A—are you _sick_?" Maria demanded, her cheeks high with color and pink. She took a few stumbling steps backward, brushing her palms on the skirts of her dress as she dressed quickly. "I _knew_ it," she breathed, feeling her dark eyes grow wide and round with shock. "You fancy her? You _want_ her! Admit it!" she demanded, pointing a shaking finger in Adam's face. She flinched as Adam slapped her hand away. Maria seethed, completely done with this behavior.

She walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. When he turned away from the window to look at her, she connected her hand with his cheek, to which he responded in kind with his own hand raised in a fist to hers.

The slap was as loud as a clap and stung her face. It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her right eye was a small cut where one of Adam's rings had caught her. Maria staggered backward, clutching her face, eyes watering with unshed tears.

"Get _out_ ," he growled, no warmth or semblance of the usual charm in his voice that he usually reserved for their time spent together. " _Now_."

Maria felt her jaw lock up and tense, and she ground her teeth in anger, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. "I _know_ you, you will not hurt me, my love." She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat, and cupped Adam's chin in her hand, tilting it up sharper than perhaps she would have liked, for she could have sworn she heard a neck muscle pop. She watched, as one of his veins began to throb.

The hearth keep's eyes widened as one of his strong hands came up to grip the column of her throat and squeezed.

"Did you not hear me?" The Prince snarled angrily, teeth bared in anger, hackles raised like one of his hounds. Maria desperately clawed at his fingers with her hands, trying to get him to relinquish his grip on her throat. "Am I just not getting through to you anymore, Maria?"

"Please…" she choked out hoarsely. "S—Stop…" Usually, the sound of her begging sent a fire to his groin, though today, it only seemed to fuel his wrath even further, and she watched as a light ignited in his eyes.

So, Adam was finally unfaithful to her. Oh, she knew he bedded other women, of that he had never been discreet, nor had she in taking other men, but she had thought their bond immune until the Dupont girl came sauntering through the gates of the Prince's castle, unwillingly or not.

Piling reproach after reproach upon himself, Adam was about to add Maria to his growing list of past brutalities. And this was the beginning of the end. Maria was more than maddened, and she coughed, gasping for air as she felt his grip on her throat slackened and violently shoved the hearth keep off his lap, looking thoroughly disgruntled. But…she… _loved_ him. _She cared for him_.

Maria blinked owlishly as the realization hit her full force. Wait, that's not what she wanted to say. She had made excuses for Adam's behavior time and time again. And now she knew the truth. That he did not care for her in the way that she had secretly hoped.

Maria had given him all that she had and more, but he never even acknowledged it. He was stopping all of their rendezvous. For _her_. Maria felt an incredible welling in her chest as fury felt like it was pouring out of her every orifice at what Adam had almost done to her.

"You do not care for me, my love, do you? Tell me the truth," she whisper-hissed, clenching and unclenching her fists by her sides as her arms fell, not knowing what to do. Maria was just a placeholder for someone that was taking her place. Except the Dupont woman was going to _marry_ her Prince. Be his _wife_.

 _I'm nothing to you anymore, am I?_ Maria thought, unable to voice that thought. She stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout.

One look over at Adam was more than enough for the hearth keep.

 _I hate you. And I miss you. And I hate you. And I miss you_.

These conflicting thoughts were swirling around in Maria's head, and she felt dizzy still, though she still supposed that was from her violent coughing spell as she clutched at her throat, still gasping for much-needed air. She drew in a sharp breath of air that sent swells of pain down her back and lifted her chin to meet Adam's gaze.

By God, he really _was_ a bastard, wasn't he? She swallowed nervously, thinking now how goddamned unnerving it was to see the eyes of a snake glaring at her from a human head, one bereft of affection, devoid of conscience at all. Over the course of their… _relationship_ , if she could even call what they had that anymore, Maria had watched Adam's work' many times, the powers that be (namely him) finding it useful to make her watch, sometimes even helping, whenever he beat and flayed a prisoner.

Adam seemed to only ever smile when cutting someone, his emotions otherwise cold throughout.

That man did not need to be afraid to kill or any semblance of self-defense. Causing pain was his addiction and bedding as many pretty girls as he could, though it would seem the widowed twice young brunette currently walking through the rose gardens of his castle, had gotten the Prince's attention already, and for that, Maria hated her.

By God as her witness, she _loathed_ her. Over the years, Adam had become part of the bedrock of Maria's personality. And now… _this_.

It would have been kinder if he had just _killed_ her, and since he hadn't, Maria was now going to be forced to be this person filled with a trace of bitterness for both Dupont and that she would not be able to control.

Belle was to be Adam's _wife_ , the _mother_ of any children they might sire together. The girl Adam had met all those years ago hiding in the kennels while she watched the young boy work with his hounds, beasts, every last one of those accursed creatures, the one with the big blue eyes and curious mind now felt herself being consumed with a hatred Maria never knew could take root in her mind. But here it was.

Here they were together, and Adam was finished with her, it would seem. Maria would be forced to be one of that _whore's_ _maids_ , braiding her hair, helping her dress, fetching her water for a bath, bringing the two of them meals…trying not to imagine them _together_.

All the while the hearth keep would be forced to smile and make small talk with that woman. The hatred Maria felt for Belle—for _both_ of them—didn't ebb, it _multiplied_. Maria swallowed past the lump forming in her throat, finally after an eternity spent in silence, found her voice again.

"Your bride really _is_ quite a pretty little slip of a thing, isn't she? Very delicate." Maria let out a low growl from the back of her throat that didn't sound very menacing and instead came out as more of a low demure purr. "I saw you staring at her. At _Belle_." She could hear the jealousy and envy and insecurity drip from her words like poisoned honey.

Maria's scowl deepened, creating lines upon her forehead and a deep groove near the edges of her mouth as Adam rolled his eyes and sighed, wearily rubbing his temples as though the hearth keep's incessant lines of questions were giving him a splitting headache. _Good_ , she thought meanly to spite Adam.

"She's to be my _wife_ , Maria. I'm going to marry her on the morrow. That involves looking at her from time to time. As well as ...other things." There was no mistaking the tone of lust and longing in his voice. His tone was clipped and hard and rapidly losing his patience as he grew annoyed with her questions.

 _Other things_?! _What_ other things?! Maria scowled, biting her tongue. Maria's next question that burned on the tip of her tongue seemed to tumble out of her mouth before she could manage to restrain herself. "Do you think she will _enjoy_ it? _Sleeping_ with you, that is," she growled.

The hearth keep watched as the man's dark-haired ebony head whiplashed upwards, blue eyes silently seething in his anger. Maria could feel her heartbeat pound in her chest as she looked at him, hardly daring to believe what she saw that lay therein in his eyes.

 _Fear_. The feared and reviled Prince, this bastard, that _Beast_ , was… _afraid_. Afraid of a little _girl_ who could read. The irony of it all.

She froze, not daring to move, though Adam had gestured for her to leave, and she felt her feet moving of their own accord, taking one step towards the door, then another, though her mind was screaming at her to turn around. She felt frozen to her spot. Heart pounding in her chest.

The paralyzing hurt at what Adam was initiating spread through Maria's body like icy liquid steel. She clenched her fists as she hesitantly took each step forward, inching ever so closer to the door. Maria noticed her feet trembling and her legs twitched, fighting the impulse to whirl around, and hit the bastard who was ruining everything.

The hearth keep felt her throat close up in threat of screaming at Adam bloody murder, feeling trapped and hopeless. Her jaw clenched and became tight, her teeth grinding together in anger. Fires in the form of water stung her sky-blue eyes, threatening their attack.

Maria bit her lip, casting one last lustful, longing glance towards the Prince, who had turned away from her and was staring out the window at something, though at _what_ , Maria had a feeling she could guess. _Her_. Salty blood lingered on her tongue as she clamped down.

The hearth keep felt her brain pick up her feet in an unbalanced gait, carelessly dropping her feet to the ground with each harrowing step. Her stomach felt full of stones, and the thick acid of her stomach layering coated at the back of her throat, and she thought she might vomit. Adam had grown bored with Maria at last.

And she was helpless to do a thing about it. That was all. Still, something about the forlorn look in the man's blue eyes prompted her to ask one final question, one last taunt to the man who had ruined everything with one simple choice word. _Her name_.

"Do you think that she could ever grow to _love_ you? This _Belle_? Or will she be afraid of you?" Maria growled, biting her bottom lip until she felt the blood coat her tongue and the edges of her teeth. "Hmm?" She folded her arms across her chest and watched, feeling a sick immense of satisfaction as Adam startled.

He clearly hadn't been anticipating her question and it had thrown the bastard off-guard, which was what she had been intending all along, and she was pleased to see him jump. "Just get out." His voice cracked, wavering.

Maria sneered, masking her hurt with a look that she had perfected over the years. A look of 'perfect impassiveness,' if it pleases you.

She slammed the door to his chambers on the way out, loud, and hard enough that it rattled the doorframe, though Maria hoped it was enough to rattle his stupid brain in his stupid, thickheaded, dim-witted skull. Anger at the Dupont wench boiled deep in the hearth keep's system, as hot as fire and just as destructive, if not more.

It churned within, hungry for destruction, and even Maria knew it was too much for her to handle. The pressure of this raging sea of red that she felt pounding at the back of her skull would force her to say things to others that she did not mean, or to express her true thought that she had been suppressing for weeks.

Maria knew she had to get out of everyone's way before she likely erupted in her furious state. She hoped in time this feeling would pass, but as long as the Dupont woman was married to Adam, it would linger.

She was well aware she could really hurt people in her agitated state.

So, she escaped. She ran towards the edge of the woods that bordered the Prince's estate, that place of peace.

Maria allowed her swirling vortex of hateful thoughts towards the Dupont wench and Prince Adam to consume her, relishing the curse words that poured from her tongue, spewing from her mouth like black putrid bile.

The Wolves Woods was the only place that she felt like she could really truly just…let go. Of everything. The hearth keep allowed the darkness of the wooded canopy above her head swallow her whole for a little while, and her hatred coursing through her bloodstream for Belle Dupont strangely enough, in its own way, calmed her from head to toe. Maria felt like she was slowly emerging from the rage and anger she had possessed only moments ago, and once she reached the heart tree, that gorgeous old willow tree, Maria stopped and glanced up at it. That luscious bark with the five-pointed blood-red leaves and sap. She glanced up at the tree in all its beauty and felt as though the magnificent thing was slowly allowing the anger that she felt to dissipate from her, and Maria did not deny that at least, for the moment it felt nice.

Maria felt calmer than she had before. Maria felt… _free_. Feeling the beginnings of a wicked smile curve at the corners of her lips, she hummed a little ditty in a low tune she'd heard old Mrs. Potts sing in the kitchens the other night while she brewed a nice cup of tea to take to their distinguished 'guest'.

Maria knew what she to do to be rid of Belle Dupont.


	40. Keep your Enemies Close

**CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE**

The Prince's new precious _prize_ was found the following morning by the edge of the woods, grief-stricken at apparently witnessing her accursed wretch of a husband's mauled corpse, set upon by wolves, and apparently attempting to end her life by means of allowing herself to _starve_ to death, freezing in the otherwise bitter chill, these frigid winds of winter. Prince Adam and his hounds were the ones to have found the luscious little brunette, and the Prince's own personal hearth keep, Maria de Barreau herself, tightened her hold on the small clay basin which held wine to act as a disinfectant, and several rags, her pale features practically pulled taut with a rigid excitement to see the Lady Belle's pretty little face marred, mauled beyond recognition with their teeth. Maria was smiling to herself as the clacking heels of her brown leather boots vibrated on the narrow winding path to the lady's chambers in the East Wing of the Prince's castle.

 _Let me see that pretty little face of yours no longer, Belle. Let me see it_. Though the young blonde hearth keep's smile immediately faltered when she reached their distinguished guest's chamber doors in the East Wing, already finding it to be unlocked.

The visible open gap between the door and its post suggested to Maria de Barreau that someone had entered Belle's chambers before her, and she believed that no one would have dared crept up here to the East Wing to Belle's room other than that of her Prince, a fact which made the young blonde's blood curdle and sour within her veins. Gingerly, with the crook of her elbow so as to not spill the contents of the tray she was carrying, she pushed the door open but did not find her Prince Adam within.

Instead, it was none other than Monsieur Lumiere and kindly old Mrs. Potts, both of whom were seated on the edge of Belle's bed, while she sat with her back rested on a high, fluffed-up pillow against one of the bed's four posts. Both swiveled their heads in Maria's general direction, brows furrowed in confusion at Maria's sudden appearance.

Maria carefully poked her head in the door, unable to stop the frown from forming that twisted and contorted her otherwise really quite pretty features into a pained grimace. The stories the other maids and hearth keeps had been spouting throughout the castle were not true at all. Belle's pretty face was not mauled at all, no.

Belle Dupont's pale face remained a pleasant sight, one that made Maria's blood boil within her veins and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright, all except for a rather strange reddish-purpling bruise on her right cheek and a tiny cut at the corner of her lower lip. Both looked like they pained the brunette and caused her discomfort, which was the very least the Prince's personal hearth keep could hope for.

Despite the abrasions on her face, the simple fact remained that Belle's face remained as lovely as the sunrise itself, a fact that Maria de Barreau loathed immensely, and the young blonde woman were unable to stop the jealousy brooding on her face.

Her nostrils flared like that of an enraged bull's as she gingerly stepped in through the open door, trying her best to ignore the quizzical stares that Mrs. Potts and Monsieur Lumiere were giving her, waiting on a remark for what she was doing here.

"His Grace sent me to tend to Belle, Mrs. Potts," Maria heard herself exclaim as she let out a tiny sigh, almost begrudgingly so. Though in truth, the only reason she had come to Belle's chambers this morning was to mock the strange young beauty who was to be married to the Prince on the morrow, injuries or not, as her Prince did not want to wait, not that the girl's rumored accursed wretch of a husband was out of the picture.

The matronly woman shot a quirked brow Maria's way, her own frown deepening at the youthful blonde hearth keep's words, though she offered up no verbal retort to Maria de Barreau if old Mrs. Potts, was in fact, suspicious of her claims. Sensing the old woman and Monsieur Lumiere needed more convincing, Maria gingerly set down the basin of medical supplies on the small wooden night table which rested next to Belle's bed.

"The Prince's maester said that she was feeling fevered, so I've brought a basin of warm water to dab away at the heat on her skin, and some wine and rags to tend to those nasty-looking injuries on her pretty little face," Maria said.

It was Monsieur Lumiere's attentions that caught Maria's eye as the golden-haired man looked at Maria, his eyes searching hers for the truth, and he briefly wandered the gaze of her petite, slender body, all the way from the roots of her short blonde hair to the hem of her simple brown dress, his normally kind eyes narrowed, for the moment quite speculative and silently disparaging.

Maria bristled where she stood, knowing fully well what the other members of the Prince's staff thought of the likes of her, as his lover. But she didn't give a damn what they thought. She might have, once upon a time, but those times were long gone and naught but ashes in the wind these days. Monsieur Lumiere made an odd little noise at the back of his throat that sounded to Maria like a sniff of disapproval, before rising from the edge of her bed, Mrs. Potts quickly following suit.

"Are you quite certain that you can remember nothing else from last night, mademoiselle?" he pressed, a note of urgency in the man's kind, tenor-like tone.

Belle mutely shook her head, a dark curl bouncing as she did so. "No, monsieur."

"Very well." Monsieur Lumiere heaved a heavy sigh of disappointment and slumped his shoulders in disappointment as he turned to leave, Mrs. Potts trailing behind. "Rest then, milady. If you are to be wed to the Prince on the morrow, you will need it _now_ more than ever. Let me or Mrs. Potts know if there is anything you need. You are our guest here in the Prince's castle, we aim to serve and to please you."

The young brunette offered a silent little nod, though she did not express her gratitude at the two Heads of House coming to check on her. Maria stared after the pair of them until she heard their footfalls echoing down the long hallway of the East Wing.

She missed Prince Adam bad enough that her heart ached, and she could feel the heat pooling in her chest at night as the heat of missing him overwhelmed her. Maria missed feeling how his lips would ravage hers, how his teeth would leave markings on the skin of her neck, sometimes drawing blood on the column of her throat.

But Maria could see it in his eyes, how he was already a much-changed man, and Maria could feel the pit forming uncomfortably in her stomach, as she realized that what little heart Prince Adam did possess, was now _hers_. Belle's. Belle had everything that Maria ever wanted. Maria ground her teeth in anger and felt her jaw lock as she continued to stare at the doorknob.

The hearth keep was torn between her desire to burst into the room and make a mockery of the very woman that had ruined the only good thing in Maria's otherwise awful life, or to turn on the heel of her boot, the food still in her hands, and let the young brunette slowly starve to her death.

Maria just had to see it for herself. The rumors flew amongst the Prince's castle that ever since the girl had laid eyes upon that accursed monster's corpse, what little of it was left, that she refused to speak, much less eat. How she would refuse to look Adam in the eyes, which in turn, only fueled his wrath even further.

Maria scoffed and rolled her eyes in disgust at Belle's weakness. Prince Adam hated weak women, especially ones like her who were meek.

 _Timid. Afraid. Spineless_. Maria felt her mouth stretch even wider than she thought possible as she decided the time had come. No candles were lit, save for one that lay perched in the windowsill, the flames flickering, dying slow. _Like I wish you would. Were that the Prince or myself should flay you alive_ , Maria thought bitterly, her sky-blue bright eyes flashing and burning in anger, though for the sake of appearances, she forced a smile on her face as she took a ginger step through the door.

The hearth keep always smiled with a fake smile of hers. She always thought that life would be easier that way. To be kind to others, compliment them while in reality, all Maria really wanted to do was the exact opposite. Insult them to their faces, not caring for the outcome if she were to be horribly punished for it. She liked it.

But that would only make her already hard life even more difficult, which prevented Maria from acting out on these desires. But when she had met Prince Adam when they were both but children, even when they were small, he had not fallen for her smile. Or her charm. It was one of many things that Maria like about Prince Adam. Maria liked to think that she had mastered her fake smile, right down to the wrinkles around her heavily-lidded dark eyes.

No one had ever dared to question her except for one person. He saw in her eyes, the windows to what little soul she possessed. She paused, reflecting on one of the first things he had said to her, wise beyond his years even back then, as a boy, and she a mere little slip of a thing.

"Your expression is always the same," Prince Adam had bluntly said to her one afternoon while feeding the dogs. His words had taken Maria by surprise, she couldn't have been more than eleven or so at the time, and before even she knew it, the Duke's fair-haired young son began spending more time with her. It was not that hard considering he was her superior, and she, the servant. Days passed as quick as light. Maria didn't even know when it happened, or how it did, as they grew up together. But eventually, her fake smile turned real.

And now… _this_. 'This,' being the Prince's precious little bride, who was currently huddled in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, a listless expression in her normally brilliant brown eyes, as her chin rested on top of her kneecaps, and Maria silently seethed, allowing herself to hate her.

Maria allowed herself to meet Belle's gaze as she wordlessly placed the tray on a nearby table, sauntering over to the window and lighting another candlewick in the sill.

She wanted to be able to better see the woman's eyes. Maria smirked and stared into Lady Belle Dupont's eyes, determined not to look away first, though the angry voices inside her head screamed at her, creating a horrible pounding at the base of her skull, as visions of Belle's bloodied, broken corpse lying lifelessly in front of her consumed her mind. The hearth keep was certain that Belle knew she was trying to hide her feelings of immense hatred and dislike for her, but still, she was bound and determined to fool the young brunette. Maria contorted her lips into an awkward, toothy smile that already, both women knew did not meet her eyes, but her cheeks were not quite so compromising. She could feel their reluctance to be molded falsely, but still, she tried.

When Belle dipped her head and finally averted Maria's gaze, the hearth keep felt her smile fall lifeless, allowing her face to return to its usual cold hard gawking of envy. Maria knew that Belle would deny it whenever asked about it, whether by one of the other serving girls or probably even now to her as Maria knew she was about to ask the question and did not bother to stop herself as the obligatory,

"Are you well, Belle? Can I get you anything else?" tumbled from her lips. Maria's own lips pursed into a thin, narrow line as she folded her arms across her chest. She saw it in Belle's face, that seven hells, no, she was not, in fact, all right. The lies over Belle's lips, faking smiles, and her words, trying to convince everybody else in the castle that she was just fine.

Whenever the girl smiled, something felt wrong, like a little crook over her luscious pink lips, coming from deep inside her soul.

Not that Maria cared a whit what happened to Belle. She would sooner see her buried six feet underground for taking Prince Adam's affections and his attentions away from Maria.

"No." Belle's voice was cold, devoid of emotion. "Our Prince of these lands is monster, he murdered my husband and yet…" she paused, her voice trailing off as she blearily lifted her head to gaze through a slightly hazy and unfocused look at Maria as the hearth keep grabbed the tray of food that she had set aside, torn off a chunk of the bread and cut a wedge of cheese and handed it to the girl on a little serving plate. "I thank you," she mumbled, dipping her head in acknowledgment, "but tell your Prince Adam that I shall not eat. Please go back to your lord and inform your master that I have hanged myself. He murdered my husband, Maria."

Maria snorted, rolling her eyes. _What a weak little girl_ , she thought meanly. "Do you require your own rope, milady?" Maria spat, poisonous honey and venom dripping from her words as they tumbled out of her mouth of their own volition, her tongue no longer taking directions from her mind. "Or shall I provide one for you?"

Belle's head whiplashed sharply upwards, and she furrowed her brows into a slight frown. "I should do it myself," she snapped, choosing to ignore Maria's statement, which, for reason that was even unknown to the hearth keep, ignited a fire like a wild forest fire deep into her bloodstream as waves of anger coursed through her veins.

Maria rolled her eyes again and knelt at Belle's eye level. "I know you think ill of me, and with good reason," she said, lowering her voice and trying a different tactic. "It is no secret that I despise you, but man's law and my servitude towards the Prince's family requires that I serve you, and so that is what I must do, milady," she whisper hissed through clenched teeth. "It is…true, that I do not believe you to be worthy of Prince Adam."

"No one deserves to be married to that _man_ ," Belle whispered, her voice lowering to a soft susurration and her voice cracked as she blinked back briny tears, lifting a shaking hand to her eye level as she studied the simple but still quite beautiful yellow gold band that Maria would have happily given her right arm to wear, and she loathed Belle.

The hearth keep watched as Belle curled her left hand into a fist, which was trembling and shaking like a leaf in the wind, not sure what to do with her hands. Maria heaved a haggard sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. " _Eat_ ," she commanded, no warmth or sympathy in her tone. She admittedly thought Belle was getting off lightly, considering she wanted nothing more than strangle the fair-skinned strange brunette beauty with her own two hands, though she knew that by doing so, she would risk possible expulsion from the castle, maybe even death, for daring to lay a hand on the Prince's future bride and his Princess. He had made it _quite_ clear following her wedding night that anybody that would be discovered mistreating their precious key to the North of France, would be flayed alive publicly in the courtyard for all to see, and then hanged.

No. That she could not allow. So, for now, Maria would bide her time until another option presented itself. Her father was apt to tell her growing up that patience in life was a precious commodity, a virtue that not many in all of France possessed, and that if she could master the art of being patient, then only good things would befall her.

"I did not traipse my way up all those stairs only to be sent away and hear that you are starving yourself. Think of what will happen to you if your _Prince_ finds out." Maria knew as her hateful words flew from her mouth that they had hit their mark. She watched with no small measure of satisfaction as the color drained from Belle's face, and she snatched the bread loaf off the little plate and tore off a chunk of it with her teeth. "Our Prince requests that you join him tonight in the mess hall. He commands to see you by his side at dinner, he wishes to know his precious future wife is alive and well," sighed Maria, adopting the tone of someone talking to a twelve-year-old child, rather than a grown woman of almost nineteen. "Adam is not so bad, Lady Belle. Truly."

Belle pursed her lips into a thin line and shot a look of daggers the hearth keep's way. "I should have nothing to do with that monster," she explained through gritted teeth between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. "He has the _audacity_ to keep me a prisoner here, forbidden me to leave unless he goes with me, h-he… _murdered_ my husband, and then suggest, no, _demand_ , that I join him for _dinner_? I think not. You may go back to the Prince and tell them that I refuse, and if he is angered with my response, seeing as I'm likely to _kill_ myself tonight, then I should trouble your Prince no longer, for I cannot continue to live in these conditions."

Maria, before she knew it, burst out laughing, erupting into a giggling fit that she immediately clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle, though it was already too late for that. She grinned behind her hand as she heard Belle let out a low growl from the back of her throat. Belle's dark chocolate eyes narrowed in anger.

"You believe this to be funny? For it is _not_. Think about it. If you are the last person to be seen in my chambers whilst I still draw air into my lungs, and then later, if they were to discover my lifeless body on this very floor, who then, would they blame?" Belle questioned quietly, a hardened edge to her voice that was most unlike her, and her words immediately quelled the hysterical laughing fit Maria was having.

By God, but the girl was right. Maria frowned, lowering her hand from her mouth, where it fell limply and hung at her side.

"I think," she began hesitantly, not even believing the cohesive thought that was forming in her mind as she realized Belle was correct. If they were to discover her body here and knew that Maria had been the last one to speak with her, the fault would be pointed directly to her, and she'd be executed. What Maria needed was _time_ , and as much as the hearth keep hated to admit it, Belle would have to remain alive. _For now_ , she thought angrily.

"I believe that you will come around, in time. Prince Adam is not a bad man once you get to know him. Misguided perhaps, and certainly not what you were expecting, given you, spent most of your time surrounded by those godforsaken Dupont's when you married Gaston, but…"

"I don't _want_ to get to know him!" Belle exploded hotly, bolting to her feet, and practically collapsing onto the bed, ignoring the heated look Maria was giving her. "That man is a _monster_ in every literal sense of the word. He has no regard for my honor, cares naught for my feelings or my wishes. He cares about only siring an heir and keeping me."

Maria frowned. "Is this not a better life for yourself than living in exile or even worse?" she said. "Many women would kill to be in your position, Lady Belle _." Including me_ , she thought but did not dare voice that opinion, lest it gets her into serious trouble. The hearth keep sighed and took the tray away once she was done eating. "Perhaps…Prince Adam might be kinder to you if you did not treat him with such scorn. I see the way that he looks at you. In his own way, he does…care for you." The words as she spoke them felt like poison. "He has…"

Maria paused, not sure how much information she could divulge of Adam's past, as it was not hers to tell.

"He has had a difficult life, which as he has aged, has not improved, of which Adam's story is not mine to tell. If you wish to hear it, you must hear it from his lips and his alone. I can see that my words have intrigued you, but I am not permitted to say more." She paused, hoisting the tray underneath her right arm as she turned around, preparing to leave when something Belle said to Maria rendered her immobile.

"How long have you loved him, Maria? Do not _lie_ to me. It is in your eyes. I see much that goes on within these walls, and I have become quite good at reading people's emotions, what they are thinking, even, to a lesser extent, what they are feeling."

Maria felt her face drain of what little color there was in it, to begin with as she felt her jaw drop open in shock and anger. Her heart began to rattle and pound like a wild dog against its chains, screaming at her, so audibly loud, she was surprised the inventor's daughter was smiling back at her with that infuriatingly sweet and innocent smile couldn't hear it. Belle smiled, though her eyes were like an icy dagger straight to the hearth keep's putrid black little heart.

"I know you were his…companion to warm his bed on cold nights," she began after a moment's hesitation. "Whatever the two of you might have had once, he has forgotten you, discarded you like the _trash_ that you are," she snarled, baring her own canines, and for a moment, Maria was afraid.

Belle either did not see Maria's look of fear or outright ignored it, continuing her little confession. "I must confess to you, Maria, that I am not proud to take your place, but I know, there's that look that you cannot hide from, it's in your eyes. You thought he would be with you for all eternity, but such a union would never be looked upon with approval, because he is a noble Prince, though he is not a noble man, and you…" Belle crinkled her nose in disgust. "Are _nothing_. The Prince would never agree to the match, and you know it."

Maria silently fumed, seething in her anger, feeling her nails dig into the skin of her palm. Ah, but if looks could kill, Belle would be dead in a fraction of a second. "I—you are confused," Maria began coldly. "You know naught of which you speak. You do not know what you are talking about. Th—there is nothing between us."

Belle's cold gaze remained fixed, her face impassive, though there was the sharp glint that looked like the edge of a knife, Adam's knife, that flickered in her dark brown orbs. "Ah, but I do, darling. Perhaps there was something there, once, but ever since I have set foot within these walls, it is not there. The Prince's attentions are now solely fixated upon me, and that bothers you. I was like you once," she sighed, turning her head away, and for a moment, Maria was tempted to smack the girl across her stupid pretty little face and force the young brunette to look her in the eyes and demand she take back all of her filthy lies.

But…Maria was confused. "Like me, milady?"

Belle nodded, not afraid to look Maria in the eyes. "I believed in true love, once. I was foolish. Naïve. Sixteen maybe, at best. And now, here I am, passed from two husbands and onto the next. It was Gaston that first instilled in me how utterly _foolish_ I was, opened my eyes, but as cruel as that man was, he helped me to see the error of my beliefs, and how stupid I was believing, thinking that my true love would be waiting. My second husband, the bell ringer was…quite kind, and…handsome, in his own way, and treated me well. I wish...that I could see him again. Just one more time, to tell him...that I...I love him," she confessed, absentmindedly picking at the sleeve of her gown, "but he was a rarity among men. And now he is gone. And now…I belong to your Prince," Belle sighed, "and I have seen that there is no _love_ in his heart _or_ in his eyes. He is cold, and he has sad eyes, but perhaps I could be the one to instill in him a change, hopefully for the better, and rid him of the stain upon his name. Mrs. Potts and Monsieur's Lumiere and Cogsworth seems to believe so, and as much as it pains me to confess it, it is my sworn duty to try to uphold my promise. I made a promise to Papa I would make the best of my life with whatever I was given, and though this was the hand that I was dealt, I should seek to succeed, no matter what. I know how to play Prince Adam's little game. And how to _win_."

To that, the hearth keep had no words, for she could not think of an apt response to formulate in her mind. Visions of scarlet red danced in front of her line of sight as she imagined dozens of ways to kill the girl in front of her, each one more bloody and violent than the previous.

 _Soon_ , she reminded herself, curling her fists.

Belle must have sensed that she was getting to the hearth keep for she let out a sigh, her smile faltering as her gaze remained fixated upon Maria. "I would not see you near the Prince again, Maria. Is that understood?"

"Y-yes, milady," Maria mumbled her response, bowing her head in submission.

"Good. You may inform Prince Adam that he may see me now," she whispered, lifting her head to stare at the open door to her chamber, which Maria had perhaps foolishly gotten to close. "You may tell your Prince that I will _think_ about joining him for dinner. No more, and no less than that."

Maria crinkled her nose in disgust and pulled a face but dropped into a low curtsy. "It will be done, milady," she whispered quietly, hissing it through clenched teeth. As she carried the breakfast tray underneath her arm, it did not escape the hearth keep how earlier, the Prince was eyeing Belle. Hungrily. Maria grinned to herself as a wild, radical idea began to form in the back of her mind, consuming her as she bolted down the stairwell to head back towards the kitchens.

Until she could think of nothing else, the hearth keep began to formulate a plan in her mind to rid herself and Adam of the Dupont wench once and for all, for good. She would not trouble him any longer.

Maria could not wait to see the girl suffer, and the hearth keep knew what she had to do to make that happen. Maria did not consider herself a hero until Belle came along. Then, all was fair in love and war.

Belle crossed a non-negotiable line the night she captured her Prince's attention, whether it was her choice or not, and the hearth keep did not forget. She would not rest until the inventor's daughter, that strange material of beauty, was beaten, and she didn't just mean beaten down. She made dead with either an arrow right between her eyes or her head on a pike. There was not a place Belle could hide from her.

She would destroy her life. Maria did not care quite how it happened; she did not need her to suffer too much. The hearth keep just needed Belle's doe-like almond-shaped brown eyes completely extinguished from the castle. Others might have thought it an overreaction if they were to sense the wicked expression of hatred and venom upon Maria's pale features, but everyone, especially Belle, had underestimated just how much she cared for him.

"I'm coming," she whispered to Belle venomously, though she knew the girl could not hear her, she liked to imagine that in her own way, Lady Belle could hear Maria.

_I'm coming for you. Just know it._


	41. Escape

**CHAPTER FORTY**

Belle's first thought of the Prince's castle was that it was an ancient creation, more than any bone left in the soil. The once smooth rock was pitted and scarred. The caretakers that tended to the castle, namely Monsieur's Lumiere and old master Cogsworth, knew just as Belle did how fleeting time was, how soon the present became the past and how the important became irrelevant. In this hallowed and ancient site, the trees surrounding the estate's property had seen centuries blow past in the winds of each season and witnessed the folly of the royal noble family's struggles and his peoples.

The walls stood mute, water awaiting the call of the wind to ruffle and move as a molten glass of deepest green. Greystone rose from the land, unapologetic and bold to defy entrance and protect what has been entrusted to their care within the castle's walls.

Below the uneven patches of dead grass that Belle had to avoid stepping on with her boot were arrowheads of old, hilts of broken swords and armor that has failed to protect. The castle lay like an old man of the hill, the moonlight shone on his craggy, tumbledown face. Moss clung in the shade of the ancient walls like a straggly beard. The once-proud turrets had crumbled in places giving the impression that she was old, and all it would take was one good puff of wind and she'd crumble and fall.

Belle silently strode amongst the castle grounds, pausing when she reached the courtyard, resting on a cold stone bench and resting her cheek in her right fist, allowing a dark curl of her hair to tumble slowly in front of her face, effectively shielding her eyes as she blinked back tears and swallowed the lump forming in her throat, which was hollowing and constricting, cutting off the air to her passageways.

But God, she missed him. She missed them both. Her new husband, and her Papa. What she wouldn't give to see either one of their faces anymore, to tell Quasi that, in her own way, she cared. That she really _did_ love him, that she did not care what the rest of Paris thought of him, or of their marriage, however unorthodox their union and relationship was in truth.

But how many _more_ deaths must she suffer? For the life of her, Belle could not think of what she had done to anger God and His angels that made fate more than too cruel to curse her with something far worse than disease or death—eternal grief.

She liked to think that she had been a _good_ and _dutiful_ daughter to Maurice, and a faithful wife to Gaston, despite how the boorish man had treated Belle, a gentle dove with no ambition for power but only for a happy marriage with Quasi, and her love of good books to pass by her time during fits of boredom.

That was all she wanted, and God was to deny her even the simplest of her dreams. The last tears that cascaded from her lids dripped down her pale cheeks and left her eyes stinging, sore. Belle felt cold inside. _Empty_. No matter how much she missed the warmth of the sun's rays and how it would come to thaw her frozen spirit, she had become but a foul caricature of herself, and the inventor's daughter did not like it at all, but…but…

She did not _care_. She wished for Death's cold caress to wrap its icy tendrils around the pale column of her throat if that was what it took to bring Quasi back to her, and her Papa. Bring them both back. Her life was not worth theirs, take it back!

Oh, Good Lord in Heaven, give their lives back to the men, take _hers_ instead. Belle had not dined nor broke her fast, but at this point, she considered it a convenience.

She could _starve_ for all she cared, and she fully meant to. At this point, she cared not whether she lost Gaston's baby or kept it. The babe was _not_ a product of true love, not like what she and Quasi shared, and if allowing herself to starve like this was the price to pay in order to see her husband's mostly handsome face again, then so be it.

Belle allowed a muffled, half-choked sob to escape her lips as she felt a fresh onset of tears prick at the corners of her vision, recalling how that gray morning when Monsieur Lumiere had rapped on her door with a grim expression on his lined face, breaking the news that Notre Dame's bell ringer, her beloved husband, had been found in the Wolves Woods, _lifeless_.

She had thought she could handle it, but when she descended the courtyard and looked behind both Prince Adam and Judge Frollo himself, it felt as though Death had plunged its skeletal hand into her chest and ripped her heart out with his own hands.

Only the strong, ironclad grip of Prince Adam was successful in holding her in place, and Belle hadn't even been able to recall her knees weakening and crumbling beneath her, nor her chest hyperventilating as it felt like she hadn't been able to breathe, or her soul plunging into an eternal black abyss.

The images of Quasi and Papa came crashing down on her—both of their bodies maimed by _animals_ , dogs, and wolves. It seemed to take an eternity for Prince Adam to cover his future princess's sight with a strangely numb embrace and a well-played surprisingly gentle kiss on her forehead, and then the tears came pouring down. And she'd been crying ever since.

Belle felt she very well could have filled the wells scattered throughout the castle grounds if she'd been of a mind to gather and bottle the vile, wretched salty droplets.

"You should be here _with_ me, Quasi," Belle whispered hoarsely, her throat hollowing, though her body remained still and unmoving as she rested on the bench. "I…I miss you. Your pretty blue eyes, your beautiful smile, your—your red hair, wily heart, torn mind, and kind, tortured soul. I—I don't know…if I can do this without…"

 _You_ is what she wanted to say, though her voice cracked and broke, trailing off. Her grief at missing her second husband surged with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by her long intakes of chilled cold air.

Tears began to spill from her helpless eyes onto the soil beneath her boots. Her gaze fell from bloom to bloom of the red and white roses growing in the courtyard.

At that moment, the sure knowledge that life would go on without Quasi, that the cathedral was apt to find a replacement bell ringer soon, assuming the church already had been told of the news, given the Judge had witnessed his ward's dead body the same day that she had, and that she would never again see his handsome face, or hear his soft, tenor-like voice as he whispered sweet words of affirmation into the shell of her ear, that time was only stopped for her, undid Belle's resolve completely.

All pretense of quiet coping became lost, and she buried her head in her hands, and another choked sob escaped her bruised and cracked lips, her hands suddenly finding purchase in her dark curls, clutching and twisting at strands of her dark hair, turning the roots so hard that was painful and Belle could feel the roots screaming in protest as her shoulders heaved. She sucked in a haggard breath through gritted teeth, her throat constricting even tighter still, and the air hitched just past her bleeding lips.

"Come back…don't leave me…" Belle's shoulders heaved in immense pain. How could it be wrong to wish that Quasi were not dead, her sweet husband?

Theirs was something of an awful affair, a marriage of convenience more than anything, but there was no denying that Belle felt her heartstrings of that damned stubborn corded muscle within her chest ached for him, and she knew that she really, truly loved him.

 _Don't leave me_. He had _promised_ he would be right by her side, and she wanted him here now, in whatever form, whatever shape or smell, she would welcome Quasi. _Haunt me then, you bastard_ , Belle thought through gritted teeth as she squeezed her eyes shut as another sob escaped her lips. _Ravage my dreams. But come back to me_.

Belle tensed and immediately removed her head from her hands, sitting up straight as she felt a figure nudge beside her. Belle closed her tired eyes, daring not look behind her to see who it was, thinking that she already knew who the Stranger was.

Only one other in this castle had the courtesy to visit her these days aside from elderly Mrs. Potts and Monsieur's Lumiere and Cogsworth, and she knew it was _him_.

Or so she thought until the figure spoke up beside her. "T'is truly beautiful…"

Belle sharply turned her head, finding a familiar cloaked figure standing affront her, regarding the white and red roses with a scrutinizing gaze, leaning on the wall near the entrance that led outside of the courtyard and towards the vast Wolves Woods.

She had strawberry blonde curls that rippled to just past her breasts, an ethereal pale face as she lowered the hood of her robe, lovely in all of the ways, an angel….

"Agathe," Belle breathed, blinking owlishly at the new arrival, as she rose gingerly from the stone bench on which she'd been seated, reaching up a slightly trembling hand to flick away the last of her tears and twirl a dark curl in fingers. "I thought that you and I would never meet again, my friend," she whispered softly.

Agathe tossed her curly hair over her shoulder and let a dark little chuckle escape her lips as she rested heavily on her walking stick for support. "Yes, well. I thought I would stop by and check on you, child, and if I could catch a glimpse of this Prince, who I've heard quite the rumors, is admittedly something of a _beast_ and a _monster_."

"Oh." Belle stammered, trying to form an apt response to the strangely beautiful beggar woman, who, Belle could not help but think there was more to her than meets the eye, though what thing or those things might be, only Agathe knew for sure.

She blinked and forced her vision to clear, finding Agathe's two benign blue eyes meeting her gaze with somewhat of a critical interest etched on her pale features.

Agathe looked almost exactly the same as the last time the two women had encountered one another at Maurice's grave in the graveyard at the edge of Paris, still wearing the same robe, and still just as beautiful as ever, which gave Belle pause.

In truth, Belle was feeling quite flustered and somewhat flabbergasted by the young woman's sudden appearance. How in God's name had she managed to get past the guards and within the grounds undetected was beyond Belle's own imagination.

And that was saying something in it of itself. Belle blinked owlishly at the beggar woman, whose lips parted open to speak as she no doubt took notice of the younger woman's much too pale face, her thin frame, emaciated cheekbones, and the sallow, dark circles underneath her eyes, indicating Belle's lack of sleeping at night, given that every time she closed her eyes to try, her nightmares were plagued by sights of _him_.

"I have _heard_ ," Agathe began slowly and cautiously, seeming to choose her words as she stepped forward, leaning heavily against her walking stick for support, "that this Prince of this castle saved your life and that of your baby's, mademoiselle. Are there any _truth_ to these so-called rumors?" she asked, fixing Belle with a pointed stare.

Belle spluttered and stammered as she tried and struggled to think of a retort to Agathe's question that she had just posed to her. "W—well…yes, I, um, he did save my life, Agathe, but I…" Her voice trailed off and she looked away for a moment.

She could not quite explain it, but she _dared_ not voice her suspicions that she suspected that Prince Adam himself had somehow managed to slip poison into her tea.

And something with the confines of Belle's heart and mind still harbored a twinge of caution towards the beauty standing affront her. She could not explain it, though something in her gut told her not to tell this woman her suspicions of the Prince. She suspected that it was because this was the second time this woman had appeared, her footfalls utterly silent. _Silent_. Belle repressed a shudder that went down her back, thinking that she was not sure if she could trust a woman who was as a specter, who was as the wind, impossible to latch onto with her fingers, as one moment she was there, and then the next… _gone_. As if she has vanished as if by means of _magic_.

Besides, the walls and grounds of his castle had eyes and ears, little spies everywhere, maids, hearth keeps, cooks, stableboys, you name it, they listened.

For that reason, then, Belle decided to remain mute. "Yes," she murmured, lowering her voice an octave, and dipping her head and allowing a curl to tumble in front of her face, effectively shielding herself from Agathe's piercing gaze. "He did."

Slowly, Belle lifted her chin, jutting it out slightly defiantly as she dared to meet Agathe's gaze, feeling a sudden unease at the abrupt silence between the two of them.

The beggar woman opened her mouth to speak, having pursed her lips into such a thin line and quirking thin brows Belle's way in a manner that suggested to the bell ringer's wife that Agathe did not believe Belle's claims, but she was interrupted by the sound of raised voices, originating from behind Belle and Agathe's current location, seeming like it was coming from the walkway that led from the castle to the courtyard.

Belle's almond-shaped dark brown eyes widened in abject horror and she felt her lips part open slightly in shock as she froze for a half-second in indecision before turning towards Agathe, who was regarding the new arrival of the Prince with critical interest.

"Oh, but you can't be seen here!" Belle croaked hoarsely, shooting out her arm and latching onto the overly long sleeve of the strawberry blonde woman's robes. "Follow me! You—you can hide in the hedges of the gardens. You won't be seen!"

She tugged helplessly and futilely on the woman's sleeves, though Agathe refused to budge. The woman tossed her blonde curls back over her shoulder, swiveling her head towards Belle solemnly, and fixed the inventor's daughter with a sad half-smile.

"I think it's a little too late for that, dear sweet child. Your Prince has spotted you." With a sinking feeling that caused the pit of her stomach to churn uncomfortably, Belle realized that the beggar woman was right, as she heard the Prince's baritone voice.

Belle clenched her teeth and felt her jaw lock up, molars grinding tighter than rigor mortis as she let out a frustrated sigh, feeling her nostrils flare like an angry bull's.

She supposed she ought to be thankful, at the very least, that she had managed to pull Agathe near a particularly large hedge, and did not bother to apologize for her abruptness or rudeness as she shoved the beggar into the bush and stepped in front of it, hoping to conceal the stranger in the Prince's rose gardens from Adam's view. The young brunette flushed as Belle whirled around on the heel of her boot, swallowing nervously as she sank into a low curtsy as Prince Adam eyed Belle.

Prince Adam regarded Belle Dupont, this strange material of beauty that was his bride. His Princess in another day or two if preparations went according to as planned.

He had heard stories of his deceased best friend's wife, this Belle, who had been the Devil's lover until he sought to take her away from Paris and from Notre Dame.

And now, she was _his_. No one else's. He and Judge Frollo had made sure of that. She was, the Prince had to confess, truly a sweet sight. In the crisp cool air, he could feel Belle's warmth pulsate. Among the bleak walls of his castle, the fair-skinned dark-haired brunette looked like a ray of sunshine, of summer, her dark eyes curious.

Her pale skin practically cut from the finest pearls, her chest a pleasant convex, her figure in her simple dark blue gown embroidered with gold trimming eye-catching.

"What are you doing out here, mademoiselle?" he growled in a crude voice, watching and practically feeling as Belle's cheeks flushed pink from the cool air, shying away in hesitation and playing with her pinkish tipped fingers to keep them warm. "It is cold out here. You could get sick in this weather, Belle. I shan't have my bride catching her death but two nights before our wedding night," Prince Adam admonished angrily.

Belle was regarding him with what the Prince could only perceive as venom in those rich amber eyes of hers, and it did not escape her attention that the fingers of her right hand constantly fiddled with the plain yellow gold wedding ring Belle wore.

His face flushed bright red in anger at the thought that his bride could still harbor what appeared to be genuine feelings towards that accursed _wretch_ of a creature.

The Prince came to Belle and stepped closer and Belle flinched, able to smell the disquieted spirit that was Adam. "My offer still stands, princess…I am sorry that you were abandoned, let me provide for you. You deserve the highest form of respect and on behalf of that _wretch_ you _dare_ to call your _husband_ ," he growled, spitting the word as though it was a poison that had lingered on his tongue, "he failed to provide for you. And you should know, Belle, that I am more than willing to compensate. I can be your shield from this world, take away that keen sting of betrayal," the Prince said in his silver, smooth languid tongue. "You could have revenge upon the Judge for what happened to your husband. Power, money, riches. Just be my Belle, my princess, and you will see the entire world fall at your feet. If you want to keep your legacy, the time is now." A pause in the young woman's response as she mulled his words was nothing that Prince Adam could hope for, and he sensed the revolt Belle was nursing against him for his unspoken and un-confessed part in the wretch's death, but if she wanted to prove to him that she was not at all stupid, then Belle would embrace the offer.

Belle's eyes widened and she bit the inside wall of her cheek in agitation and anger upon hearing the sweet song of this beast, this Prince, how well Prince Adam cast darkness, made it so pretty that it looked just like the moonlight. But what the Prince spun could never match the warmth of a spring day, or seeing Quasi's smile again, the beauty of a simple rose, her favorite flower. Angrily she shook her head, allowing a dark curl of her hair to fall in front of her face as she sank into a low but dutiful curtsy.

"I wish that you could _hear_ yourself, Prince. You propose to me not but two days after my husband's death. So much talk of your respect," she hissed through gritted teeth. "And you are wrong, Your Grace. No, Your Highness. I am not abandoned. I never was. My father never left me, nor has Quasi, though he…he is dead."

She was well aware her voice sounded curt and clipped, her tone hard, though she held no respect for the aristocrat in front of her. Her voice cracked and she heard the warbling note in her voice, though she swallowed it back down.

"My father and husband never left my side, not for a second, and both of them are _here_ ," she growled, placing a shaking hand over her heart. "Something that you will _never_ be able to comprehend, Prince, even with all of your resources and staff at hand to advise you on matters of which you know _nothing_. The love that I possess for my husband, you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords. I would never walk with a beast like you unless it was a crucial part of slaying it."

She was panting heavily now, hearing the words drip like venom from her tongue.

"Revenge is cold, power is an infection, and money an illusion. The only real thing in this world is love and a _beast-like_ yourself can _never_ know what it is," Belle spat, tossing her dark hair over her shoulders and made to turn on the heel of her boot to go back inside the castle, though was not given a chance as the Prince's strong-arm shot out to grab her by her forearm, yanking her back roughly.

She felt the Prince tense. "You merely need more time, princess, though you would do _well_ to make up your mind and get it within your head that you will marry me and become Princess of these lands," the Prince growled through gritted teeth.

Belle blinked up at the Prince, having to crane her neck to regard him, and she swallowed as she heard the Prince's next words. "If you value your life then you will do as I say," the Prince snarled viciously, whisper hissing his words through gritted teeth.

She had the impudence to quirk her brows at the man, though Prince Adam paid Belle's mannerisms and lack of proper edict towards him no mind at all. "You will follow me to the West Wing, mademoiselle, where I will command of you to remove this gown," he snarled, pinching at the rich velvet fabric of her blue dress with his thumb and forefinger, "and you are going to lie on the bed and allow me to please you in whatever way that I deem fit for a beauty of your repute, princess. You'll _enjoy_ it."

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her, frowning and gritting her teeth in sheer anger, and before the Prince could follow up with another vulgar quip at what he had just suggested, no demanded she allows to happen to her, she found her voice and her inner resolve.

"How _dare_ you!" Belle spat poisonously, shoving against Prince Adam's chest, hard. "You—you could defeat an entire _army_ of fire breathing dragons, Prince, and I _still_ won't consent. Not in this life _or_ the next!"

For her height and petite stature, the brunette had surprising strength that Prince Adam had not anticipated, and he stumbled backward, staring at the girl, this time it was he who was unable to form any coherent thoughts. She had…she'd _rejected_ him.

 _Again_. Her resistance spurned his anger, and he let out almost a wolfish growl through gritted teeth. "Then you leave me no choice, then," growled the Prince.

He approached her in two swift strides to close off the gap of space, and Belle stepped back hesitant, grabbing hold of the skirts of her gown in a defensive manner.

A vent of adrenaline pushed Belle to bolt towards the exit that would take her back towards the East Wing of the castle, but in a split second, before the girl could make her escape, she felt the fervid smack of the Prince's hand against her left cheek. It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her face.

His hit had been a good one, an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her eye was a small cut where one of his rings on his right hand had caught her. She staggered back and tripped over the long train of her gown, her eyes watering and squeezed shut.

Belle blearily opened her eyes and through a tear-filled vision that came to her in ebbs and flows, she could see Prince Adam stepping towards her where she groveled on the ground, glaring at her, his blue eyes dull and yet consumed with hostility for her.

As her breaths increased and hitched in her throat, waves of disbelief wracked her trembling form. This boring, aesthetically pleasing to look at Prince was unraveling. He was just the greater shadow of the darkness within his heart. He was nothing more than a _beast_ , a _monster_ , just as Gaston had been to her during their marriage.

Before Belle could crawl away, the Prince was already towering over her, grabbing her by her arm and flipping her face down onto the cold stone ground below.

Her body shook with the impact as did the gardens around her when she felt the Prince press against her, the pressure even greater on her hips. "Ngh—let _go_!" Belle screamed, squirming violently, horror burning in her eyes as the Prince lunged at her.

The Prince closed a strong arm around her, and her stomach gave a laborious, twisting lurch, and she might be sick all over the man's precious black leather boots.

"Hush, darling," Prince Adam breathed into the shell of her ear. "The less you fight, Princess, the quicker this will be." His grip upon her arm tightened, and she could feel his fingers fumbling with his belt, grunting in frustration as he attempted to remove it.

Hot tears began to sting and blur at the edges of Belle's vision as her throat began to close up, and all that she could manage to utter was a small mewl of fear. Was God really so cruel, to allow this to be her fate? To allow her to be raped and tortured, over and over again, by the Prince, until she went insane? But by the Light of God, and all that He had to offer, it could not be so! When this was all over, she would be dubbed the only woman in all of Paris to refuse the Prince and as a consequence of her actions, allowed herself to be taken by him before she slit her wrists.

Though, when she clenched her eyes shut, completely at the mercy of the Prince and of time, the move did not let her see darkness. Instead, colors of fondness and her husband's face appeared to her, though he was looking at her with a mixture of concern, worry, and…an emotion in light blue eyes that she could not identify what it was, Belle didn't give a damn about that now.

Though his features were slightly blurred and it was impossible for her to make out the details of Quasi's mostly handsome face in her hallucination, he turned to Belle, offering the young woman his hand, a gentle, kind smile spreading across a scarred face so warm, that Belle firmly believed his white, soft and gentle smile could thaw the cold ice and snow of wintertime. It was his face, her husband's, a pure figment of her imagination, that sent a rush of adrenaline in her veins and suddenly, Belle felt alive again.

Alive at the sudden gush of air that flooded her lungs, rejuvenating her and giving the girl purpose again, and Belle kicked out with her feet as hard as she could, and she barely stifled her triumphant grin as the heel of her brown boot grazed the man's right earlobe, and then she did it again, catching the Prince in the chest.

Prince Adam let out a holler of anger that reverberated across the stone walls of the garden as the man struggled to keep hold of Belle's bruised and aching shoulder that sent swells of pain down her spine, but in her frenzy, she was no longer in any state of mind to be reasoned with.

 _The first thing to know in a figh_ t, Gaston's voice piped up from the back of her mind. _You're going to be nervous. At least I was when I first learned how. All the training didn't do me a lick of good when backed into a corner._ Belle wasn't entirely sure why a man whom she despised was speaking to her, though she was not about to question it. Belle felt her body jolting with new vigor, an untapped rage that was boiling up from the pit of her stomach, anger not only with Prince Adam for what he had attempted to do but at herself, for what she had almost allowed to sit back and happen to her without putting up any force of resistance.

In this courtyard, it was just the two of them. The Prince, for his part, seemed so startled that he had no time to pull the dagger which rested idly in its sheath on his waist and had, much to Belle's immense relief, chosen to forsake it for the moment. Her entire body felt boiling hot. She didn't even notice her fists were clenching until blood came back on them.

From _him_. Belle let out a muffled cry of fear and anger as his strong hands latched onto her waist and started dragging her across the floor of the courtyard, hellbent on having his way with her come hell or high water.

 _No, no, no, no_! Terror seized at her heart and clawed at her throat, its icy fingers wrapping around her in a firm, vice grip. If she allowed him to trap her on the bed, she was as good as taken and raped, and... she didn't like to think it.

If she allowed this, the Prince would take _everything_ from her. No. She could not let him do this. She had to act! Belle felt her left leg shoot out again, and this time, she caught Prince Adam. dead square in his gaunt face. The inventor's daughter bit the inside wall of her cheek as she felt his nose give way under the pressure of her brown leather boot's heel smashed into his face from the sheer force and she heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking, crimson leaking from both nostrils.

Out of the corner of her peripherals, the Prince saw the dagger he'd been clutching onto slip from his calloused fingers, as he reacted instinctively, roaring like an enraged lion and weakly clutching at his nose, now spurting blood.

The weight on her shoulder lifted. Thank God Above, she was freed! Belle took the opportunity, bolting for the castle's west entrance door that he'd stupidly left open, and she could feel the Prince, who was still doubled over, in immense pain and clutching at his nose, which was twisted to the right in grotesquerie and oozing blood onto the hardwood floor, though his expression was one of pure rage, and his listless blue eyes were heavily fixated on her, and he shouted something incoherent.

Raw panic returned with a vengeance, in that grip of silent panic, her pupils dilated as her heart thrummed erratically against the confines of her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her veins and she didn't understand fully what was happening, and Belle did the only thing that she felt she could in this scenario.

She ran, not bothering to look behind, already knowing where in her mind she wanted to go.

Straight into the Wolves Wood…


	42. Reunion

**CHAPTER FORTY-ONE**

_She's alive. She's safe. You're going to see her soon. Your baby is safe._ Quasi kept repeating this mantra to himself in order to propel himself forward, not even minding that the young blonde lass Clopin had sent him with, Madellaine, kept lagging and falling behind, though if he had to hazard a guess, the girl was somewhat afraid of his monstrous form and was far too kind and polite a soul to say as much. Not that he cared either way.

The Wolves' Woods, as the peasant folk called it, this dark place that was once so alive now chilled Notre Dame's bell ringer's bones. In the fading light of the day and heat of the late afternoon sun high in the sky, Quasi was actually shaking. Bad.

Though he supposed it could have come from the copious amounts of adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins at being reunited with his Belle soon. These woods were ancient. The trees thick and old, roots that were gnarled, twisted. It might have once been filled with birdsong and other creatures that roamed, but now the place was overrun with….

 _Nothing_. The sensation was eerie, and it chilled his bones. Its canopy was so dense and thick that Quasi could only occasionally see the occasionally streak of fading sunlight that very rarely touched the forest floor beneath his and the blonde girl's boots. Even its thick vines were slowly taking away the last remnants of the bell ringer's sanity. If he had any left to begin with. He just wanted to find Belle, and take her back to the bell tower, their precious sanctuary, where he knew she'd be safe.

Quasi could feel the darkness drawing closer to him and pressing down, suffocating him slowly as he carefully stepped through the thick maze of woodland, stifling a tiny smile as he heard the girl, Madellaine, grumble under her breath about so many damned bloody tree roots.

The densely packed trees of the Wolves' Woods that lined the borders of the city of Paris, and seemingly led to this Prince's castle loomed high above his head, but remained eerily still despite the cold winter breeze that continued to float around the duo as they slowly but surely made their way towards the man's castle, and hopefully, to _her_.

The man squinted his eyes, only to see a path of gloom and uncertainty ahead, resisting the urge to roar like an enraged dragon as he carded back that one stubborn coarse lock of fiery red bang that never failed to fall into his one good eye and obstruct his view. He growled, yes, _growled_ , in frustration.

There was not an ounce of pride that swelled within him, only the desire to keep pushing forward until the two of them reached the castle, and he would scale the walls of the whole bloody gate and the building itself if that's what took to find her.

What would he _say_ to her? It had crossed his mind to write Belle a letter and yet…whatever bloody hell for? Without her here by his side, he'd feel empty and hollow. Cold and lifeless.

But if only Belle knew just how much he truly loved her, deep in his mind. He dreamt of her every night, and he occasionally found his gaze drifting to the yellow gold wedding ring he wore proudly on his left ring finger, still thinking all of this to be a surreal dream, that the two of them were becoming parents.

Even if the baby were not his, he'd love it, just the same.

He wanted nothing more than to feel his wife's lips pressed against his when he saw her again, overflowing her and saturating her with so much love and affection until Belle thought she would surely burst from all of the attention once the two were reunited. Quasi had never really once said that he loved her, though he felt it. He loved Belle more than he could ever love himself, more than anything else in this wretched life.

Quasi blinked owlishly, pulled a moment too soon from thoughts of his wife as he heard Madellaine's voice cut through the otherwise silent forest air, sounding timid and uncertain.

"Um, just how exactly deep into these woods are we going?" she murmured, trying to sound brave, and utterly failing as a consequence. He heard the warbling note of fear in her tone.

"As long as it takes to find my wife," Quasi retorted back immediately, not giving the blonde thief of Clopin's the chance to answer, who had, for the entire duration of their walk into the woods thus far, said very little, though occasionally, she would comment on a tidbit about her sister, and ask after Belle. "I'd travel into the seven layers of hell and back if that's what it took to get my wife back, girl, and if you don't _like_ it," he barked, fed up and beyond annoyed with this she-stranger's reluctance and hesitation to do whatever it took to get Belle back. "Then you can turn around and go back to Clopin. I won't hold it against you."

Madellaine ground her teeth and silently bristled at the bell ringer's comment, though the petite blonde offered no comment.

After a moment, however, of awkward silence, she spoke.

"You _care_ for her. This Belle. Your wife. Quasi, if I can call you that?" Madellaine asked, biting the inside wall of her cheek and reaching up a hand to scratch at an itch behind her left ear and tuck a wisp of her short blonde hair back where it belonged, watching with furrowed brows as Quasi quickly nodded his agreement. "What will you do to her when you find her? _If_ we find her," she added darkly, almost begrudgingly.

Quasi did not know why the girl who he barely knew was asking such persistent and personal questions, though he suspected it was an attempt to make conversation and get to know the man better, or perhaps it was to steel her nerves at being in these accursed dark woods that she didn't particularly enjoy traipsing through, and he supposed he didn't fault her.

Truth be told, if he were being honest with himself, the bell ringer was not exactly sure what he would do to Belle. Hug her. Kiss her. Touch Belle and make sure she was really real, that this was not about to be another figment of his imagination, not another phantasm, for he thought he would surely die if it were.

He'd had _enough_ of his bloody imagination for a change. Quasi paused, pondering what answer to give. At last, when he did manage to come up with a sufficient enough answer to give to the blonde who had just posed her query to him, he was surprised at how soft his tenor-like voice was, quiet. Reserved.

"Tell her…tell her how much she means to me. But I cannot help but feel worried," he confessed, his nails digging into the palms of his gloved hands, his nervous cobalt pale blue orbs skittishly glancing to the left and right, hoping to spot any sign of Belle, as if he expected her to materialize of thin air. "What if something happened to her? Or our baby and I'm…"

 _Not there_ , is what he wanted to say, though when his cracked and chapped lips parted open to try to speak further, Quasi found that he couldn't. He sighed and clamped his mouth shut and pointedly looked away from Madellaine, though the man felt her piercing gaze practically burn a hole in his skull.

Though, when the girl offered no immediate response, curiosity took hold of him and the man sanguinely lifted his head to regard the young girl out of the corner of his eye.

"Quasi, then." Madellaine nodded, coming to stand beside him, and clapping his misshapen shoulder on the back. "Trust me then when I tell you that we _will_ find her," she said soothingly, her quiet, sweet tones soothing to his broken heart.

Quasi scowled, biting down on his tongue hard enough to bleed, wishing fully he could believe the blonde's words, and yet, it was increasingly difficult for him to do so when he barely knew this woman.

"Tell me then, Madellaine. Has anyone ever believed you when you tell them not to worry? Do they trust you, _thief_?"

He watched as the girl cringed at the mention of her unofficial title, though there was no denying it was what she was. Notre Dame's bell ringer flinched at how hostile his words sounded, his cold tone, but his worry manifested itself as anger even in the best of times, and as he shot the blonde an apologetic look, he could only pray that she would forgive him.

The bell ringer immediately felt guilty for his jab at her profession and wished he could take back his words, and he watched as if by witch's curse, the blonde's shoulders slumped.

Luckily for him, she did not seem to take offense to his statement, seeming to recognize his anger was not directed at her and was instead coming from a place of fear, the ambiguity of not knowing whether or not his wife and unborn babe were still alive. Quasi watched as Madellaine de Barreau offered him a light shrug of her shoulders and pointedly looked away for a second.

"Worrying means you suffer twice. We will find her, monsieur," she reiterated with emphasis, not noticing how badly Quasi startled at being addressed with a form of a proper edict.

The bell ringer opened his mouth to ask her how she could be so bloody certain, though before he had a chance to, the girl interrupted and lifted a hand and pointed to the northeast.

"That way," was all she said. "Hopefully, we'll find her," she murmured lowly, her breath forming puffs of cold vapor in front of her as she shrugged into her thick green cape for warmth. The edges of her voice were clipped and hardened, which caused Quasi to quirk his uneven brow at the blonde as the girl straightened her posture and stomped, yes, quite literally _stomped_ , her way through the snow, determination and resolve etched upon her features.

He wasn't certain if she was referring to finding Belle or if she was referring to her finding her sister. Maria, he thought her name was, having heard the girl mention her older sister's name more than a few times, and from what little Madellaine had said of her, she wasn't a pleasant girl.

He was not prepared for the blonde thief's next comment. "Hopefully, the Prince won't be with her. That _bastard_ …" Madellaine's voice trailed off and she did not finish her thought.

 _Damn_. He'd almost forgotten. He'd been so focused and hellbent on locating Belle and escorting her back to the cathedral in her physically vulnerable state, given she was pregnant, that he'd bloody well forgotten about that Prince. He ground his teeth in annoyance, hoping he didn't run into the man again.

Because the next time, he would kill him.

Quasi winced and visibly shirked away, recoiling in disgust as he hoped Madellaine did not see his rapidly growing anger, as he felt the familiar stab of jealousy prick at his heart any time he allowed his mind to wander down that dark path as he thought of the Prince and of Belle's former husband, Gaston, that man.

There was no quelling the hot fire-seed of anger in his chest, at the simple fact that this Prince of their land, was everything that Quasi was not. Handsome, around the same age, no physical deformities that Notre Dame's bell ringer knew of.

He was a _Prince_ , for God's sake. So much more potential than a lowly man like himself could ever provide. _He_ certainly was much more of an appropriate choice of a husband for Belle.

Quasi let out a startled yelp of surprise as he accidentally almost barreled over the young blonde in his haste to catch up to her, for the petite little slip of a thing had quickened her pace. He furrowed his brows in a frown as he stumbled backward and would have fallen had Madellaine not shot out an arm at the last possible second and caught his forearm, grunting through gritted teeth with the effort to help him stand upright.

It did not escape his attention that the girl was eying him rather cautiously, as though he were nothing but an interesting specimen that she had managed to capture from an exotic zoo. Quasi opened his mouth, his face draining of all colors as his lips parted open indignantly to speak, to demand of her what the bloody hell she thought she was doing, when the girl raised her finger to her lips and effectively shushed him, and pointed.

"There." It was all she said, and as she pointed towards a clearing in the particularly thick brush, Quasi's gaze out of his one good eye that wasn't mostly blind, at least not yet, followed her finger until the bell ringer saw where the thief was pointing.

His temper was mounting to dangerous levels, and he was not in a patient mood and was fully about to give this blonde lass a piece of his mind if she was wasting their valuable time.

He wanted Belle, and God help this girl, she was going to help him find her, and if she wanted to prove to him that she wasn't stupid, then she had better follow up her end or else—

But then Belle's pale, tear-streaked face came from the shadows from the path that he and Madellaine had been trudging their way along, her pale, ashen features suspended between grief and joy. Seconds pass, his brain taking her in, struggling to comprehend that Belle wasn't just another figment of his imagination, another phantasm that his lonely mind had created to ease his desolate existence like his stone gargoyles were back at the church, that she was really _real_ , in front of him. Quasi's brain couldn't formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language, and he knew if he didn't touch his wife soon, the atoms of his very being would tear themselves apart.

How the ground was erased between the two of them, Quasi would never quite be able to recall it, but for a suspended fraction in time, he and Belle were apart, and then she was running towards him, and the next they were morphed into a single being. The warmth of her warm body met his cold skin, giving her hope just as she had before she'd gone without him.

Quasi felt his eyes fill with tears, the anger at the selfless way she had given up her own life for his, knowing full well that she had put herself at risk while pregnant with his baby, his child, forgotten. Before he could fathom what was happening, he was hugging the young brunette woman tightly, his tears dripping from his cheeks onto the shoulders of her blue gown. His arms were encircled around her, making him momentarily forget that they were in the Wolves Wood, that Madellaine was watching the pair embrace, seemingly interested.

He remembered nothing except for the smiling, silently crying face in front of him. One of her hands clasped around his lower back, the other entangled itself in his hair and stroked it. With each soft touch, more tears fall, from both of them.

Tears that neither of them bothered to wipe away. After what had to be several agonizing days apart, not knowing if the other was injured or dead or even worse, the two of them had the chance to make new memories, and wasting time wasn't on his list. The second Quasi had stepped from the shadows, stealing away Belle's frigid breath in her lungs and the very heat from her skin.

Suddenly, it felt to the young woman as though her defenses were just paper, a parchment that was being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops from her eyelids. Before Belle could even think about drawing in the air her body needed to breathe and function properly, she melted into his form, unusual though it was. She let out a content sigh as she could feel Quasi's firm torso and the heart that beat within the confines of his chest.

His hands were folded tightly around her back, drawing him closer to her. She felt her body shake, crying for the missed three days of the time that she was not by his side then, crying to release the pent-up tension of three, agonizing brutally long days and nights trapped in that wretched Prince's company.

Belle felt Quasi pull his head back slightly and wiped her tears away with a slightly calloused finger, even this roughness brought more relief than Belle thought she was capable of dealing with right at this time. The man was practically eating her with his light blue eyes, running his hand through her hair as if Quasi could not quite believe Belle was not some part of an almost forgotten dream, another one of his nightly hallucinations.

When he leaned in and kissed her, it was sweet, gentle, and tasted strangely of her own tears, though Belle did not complain. She wanted to speak. But all she could manage was a croak. "Don't go. Not again, Quasi. Don't leave…Is…is this another dream? Am I…am I died? I've died, haven't I?"

Her sweet voice was laced with so much disbelief and anguish that Quasi thought he could hardly bear it.

"No, love. You're not dead, Belle. It's _me_. I'm alive. I'm here. I'm here…"

The two of them stared at each other in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument, and a quick glance up to the left confirmed (thankfully) that Madellaine had sensed the two of them needed a moment alone and had ducked behind a tree.

Belle made a muted noise at the back of her throat and looked as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry and opted instead for a pained smile as she looked back towards Quasi. "Wh—who is that, Quasi? A—a friend of yours?" she asked, quirking her delicately shaped brows Madellaine's way.

Quasi hesitated as he looked into his wife's light brown eyes, desperately searching hers for any semblance of jealousy within.

There were none that he could detect, and he breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. "Quasi?" came Belle's voice again shyly. She fell silent as the blonde poked her head out from behind a tree, her curiosity getting the better of her, and shyly waved. Belle, though surprised, was good at hiding her stunned shock, and quickly returned the wave and offered her a smile.

He nodded, exhaling a shaking sigh of relief that there weren't going to be any tensions between the two women, it seemed.

"Yes, her name is Madellaine, Belle. She's part of Clopin's Court of Miracles. She's going to come back with us and see you safely to the cathedral. There's…something I have to do before I can join you," Quasi answered immediately, furrowing his brows in a frown as he tried to shove aside thoughts of what Clopin had asked him to do in exchange for sparing his life. He did not want to share the details with Belle, not wanting his wife to worry more than she already had.

Their glances battled one another until they both found themselves crying. Quasi felt his heart sink to the pit of his already churning stomach as it swooped and turned, and he was not at all surprised to see the beginning emotions of antagonizing disappointment in Belle's light brown eyes.

Belle was looking at Quasi through red-rimmed eyes, as though Quasi had slapped her, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're really here," she breathed, her voice breaking.

Quasi opened his mouth to retort, face flushed red from the cold and exertion at having found his wife at last, when he could not help but notice how one hand was curled around her stomach, and she staggered backward from him slightly in mental and physical pain, and almost instantly, his anger towards the Prince at what he'd done to his wife dissipated and was replaced with an overwhelming ache of worry in his chest.

"Wh—what _is_ this?" he stammered, his voice cracking. "Belle? Love? Are you ill? Is it...is it the baby?"

She did not immediately answer him.

"I—it's _nothing_ ," she said softly, though as she spoke to him, her face twisted in a pained grimace and contorted.

"This doesn't look like ' _nothing_ ,'" Quasi growled in agitation, hating that what was supposed to have been a sweet reunion had erupted into an almost argument, though tensions were high on both their sides. "A—are you _hurt_?" he demanded, almost sounding angry with Belle, and he flinched, realizing how harsh his tone came off, and he visibly flinched. He pulled back slightly to study her features and give her physical condition a once-over. "What did that bastard _do_ to you, Belle?"

"I—I'm _fine_ , h—he…didn't do _anything_ to me, Quasi. I—I promise," she whispered, her voice barely audible as a sudden gust of wind picked up and tousled her wavy hair off her shoulders. But there was a crack and faltering of her voice that gave off the impression there was _more_ to what she had endured at this accursed wretch of a Prince's hand than she was letting on, and it sent his temper briefly aflame, though he fought it.

They had bigger problems to address right now.

Such as getting out of here in one piece. Though before he could so much as take one step forward, his gaze was drawn to a tree. This tree was different from the others in these dark woods. Alone and in the middle of a clearing and felt of magic.

He could not understand why he was drawn to it, and he felt Belle's questioning gaze pierce the back of his skull hotter than any dragon fire could ever flame or a branding iron for cattle, but there seemed to be darkness to this tree emanating from it.

"Quasi?" came Belle's voice, still sounding faint, too faint for his liking, and subdued, though her voice sounded muffled, as if underwater, as he strode towards the tree and examined a face, carved into the wood. Intricately carved, crafted in exquisite detail, it was quick to remind him of his carvings back at home.

When he laid a gloved hand upon its smooth bark, the wood stayed strong, which Notre Dame's bell ringer thought peculiar. This tree did not grow brittle and weak with the frigid cold temperatures, nor pale with the frost, ice, and snow of winter.

As Quasi slowly turned his head to speak, a voice, one he did not recognize, split the air and sounded angered and hard.

"Who _are_ you?" came a woman's voice, soft, but firm. His eyes squinted as he struggled to see, the blinding white of the snow now falling making it difficult for his one good eye that still possessed the gift of sight to see more than two feet in front of him, and his heartstrings lurched as a woman stepped forward.

A queen stood before them. She wore no crown atop her head, but the bell ringer could not mistake her. Though dressed in simple attire, a simple brown robe, when the woman lowered her hood, he breathed in a sharp breath of frigid air that pained his still bruised and beaten lungs and healing right ribcage.

It was that woman from the tent. _What was her name_?

Quasi bit the wall of his cheek as he desperately wracked his brain, trying to remember and coming up short, cursing himself for it. The woman with the strawberry curls chuckled as if sensing the boy's thoughts, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she tucked a stray curl back behind her right ear.

"Agathe," she answered simply as if reading his mind. The sensation was unfamiliar, and unnerved the bell ringer, causing the fine hairs on the back of his neck to stand upright in fear.

Quasi could only watch as this _witch_ , this wood-queen of the Wolves Wood straightened her posture and hardened her gaze.

Her eyes were a dark green barely a shade away from black, and they moved with a listless disinterest over his misshapen form. She was no spirit that Quasi recognized. Not a saint or angel, he could not say exactly what this woman was, save for the simple fact that she had saved his life from Ser Frederic.

When her gaze coldly met the bell ringer's, he blanched, unable to repress the chill that journeyed up and down his back, and he knew it not to be from the cold. "This is the Wolves Wood. You trespass in _my_ domain, boy. What do you _want_?"

As he wracked his brain struggling to answer this wood-queen as she strode forward and closed off the gap of space between where Quasi stood, an arm held out defensively in front of Belle, effectively preventing his wife from taking a step forward, and where she now stood, he recognized that look.

The growing look of discontentment in her eyes, and that if he could not think of an appropriate answer that would satiate her curiosity, the three of them were about to be in a spot of trouble.

Very. Big. Trouble.


	43. Her Plea

**CHAPTER FORTY-TWO**

Belle bit down on her bottom lip as her sharp gaze hardened and flitted from that of her husband, over to the blonde lass who had gingerly stepped out from behind the tree she’d ducked behind, and then towards Agathe, who she thought she’d not see again. “It is good to see you, my friend,” she murmured in what she hoped was a courteous tone, though she swallowed down past the growing lump in her throat as she tried to quell her nervousness.

She took a cautious half-step forward, nervously wringing her fingers together in front of her flat abdomen, though she felt Quasi relax the moment she laid a gentle hand on his slightly misshapen shoulder.

“We merely ask for safe passage through your… _domain_. All the two of us want is to go home, madame,” she murmured, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as she looked to the left and right of the massive thicket of trees and brush, this endless stretch of woods that seemed to extend for miles upon miles, with no end in sight. “The Prince—”

“You cannot help him if you try, mademoiselle,” Agathe spoke up in a clipped and hardened tone as she rested heavily against her walking stick for support, blowing away a stray strawberry blonde curl that got in her way. “The man is much changed and is too far gone for you to do anything to help. I know you are thinking of doing it, but I would be remiss if I advised you to try it. The man is little more than a beast,” she added, with a curt little smile. Agathe fell silent as her inquisitive eyes settled and lingered on this strange foreign beauty, this Belle, who had so easily captivated Notre Dame’s bell ringer and stolen the man’s heart before the creature had even known it was gone himself. “There is nothing more you can do for our Prince, dear. Now _go_.”

Belle’s eyes hardened as she narrowed her eyes and fixed the self-proclaimed ‘Queen’ of this domain with an unkind stare, which gave Agathe pause, at least for a moment. The girl had spirit, she would give her that. It was not necessarily a bad thing.

There was an intensity in the young brunette’s eyes that Agathe was quick to recognize, having seen in a mirror in her own reflection a time or two throughout her life, and she feared it. Belle attempted to put on some mask of gratitude or relief or force herself to thank Agathe for all that she had done, her kind words of wisdom offered in past, but she was not able to do that. Her body still shivered, the horrors clinging vividly in her mind at what she had just narrowly escaped at the Prince’s hand.

Thank God her eyes were dry, as she did not wish for her husband to witness her tears when he was already stressed over her as it was. Belle flinched at Agathe’s eyes went down her arm, stopping just at the outline of the small dagger tucked underneath the sleeve of her blue velvet gown that Belle had hidden away.

“You will receive better protection, mademoiselle, I can assure you. You shan’t be needing that, not with your husband here,” she added, just a hint of admiration laced through her tone as she looked towards Quasi for confirmation, who blushed and pointedly refused to meet the mysterious woman’s piercing gaze.

Agathe reached out her hand expectantly, and with great reluctance, Belle, after exchanging a brief glance with her husband, winced as she withdrew the knife and handed it to her.

For a moment, she wished to keep it on her person, just in case the Prince was to send his hounds after them here in the woods, and quite possibly, there could be no fate worse than that, to be left on merely the Prince’s mercy, and that, she couldn’t allow it to happen in her current vulnerable and physical state.

Agathe took the knife from Belle and hid it behind her robes, though she wore no belt or pouch of any kind that she could see.

Belle gazed blankly at the blonde woman for a while, unable to function, her mind still reeling with the turn of events.

Finally, the young brunette swallowed all the bile still in her throat and had to crane her neck to look up at Quasi, trying to convey just the right amount of gratitude, relief, and horror, yes. If she had not stumbled onto him and Madellaine when she had, well… Belle gave a shudder at what might have happened.

“Thank you.” Belle’s words were hoarse, whispered, and on the brink of something that she could not quite describe, and she found it was everything she could utter at the moment, her words spent. Agathe merely acknowledged her words with a small nod.

“The Prince shall not bother you anymore,” the older woman offered kindly, observing the three of them with a curious look.

“What will you do to him, madame?” Belle asked in a meek, quiet voice, slightly quivering at the hardened look of steel in Agathe’s eyes as she rested heavily against her walking stick.

She discovered, even with Quasi’s hand-wound tightly around her waist to help her stand upright, that she still did not have much control over her body, as she half-expected the Prince to dart out from behind of these trees, finish what he had started.

It seemed an eternity before Agathe answered. “I will talk to him.”

Belle stared incredulously and almost huffed in indignation. ‘Talking’ had not worked out well for her thus far in her attempts to reason with that boorish brute of a man, and she doubted it would work well for Agathe, and she said as much to the woman.

“And talking will be enough?” she challenged suspiciously, quirking a thin eyebrow in Agathe’s direction, who continued to stare at Belle in such a way that caused her to feel as though she were being scrutinized in an intimate manner. She did not like it.

“Yes.” Agathe’s response was clipped and hard.

Belle let out a frustrated sigh and turned her head away for a moment to collect her thoughts. She realized out of her friend she would get nothing more specific than this vague response. But maybe…maybe that was her clue, and she could push a bit further.

Belle shuddered as she swore she still felt the Prince’s ironclad grip on her arm and shoulder and she glanced down at her trembling hands and her gaze lingered on her gold wedding ring, biting down on her lower lip. “He tried to…Agathe, he…”

But her voice cracked and trailed off as she blinked back the beginnings of briny tears. She felt the tight grip of Quasi’s gloved hand stiffen, though she did not respond, keeping her gaze fixated upon the mysterious woman in front of her, wanting her answer.

Agathe nodded slowly, sensing Belle’s discomfort. “As I said, you shan’t have to worry yourselves over our Prince anymore.” Yet for a second time, it was everything Belle was going to receive as an answer, but her words had already been spoken, and now she was utterly spent, physically and mentally. Agathe straightened her posture and tossed her strawberry blonde curls back over her shoulders before raising the hood of her brown robe, indicating their conversation had now ended.

Belle furrowed her brows, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. She was unsure whether or not she should cry or laugh herself into hysterics as the realization finally dawned.

“This was a test for the Prince, madam, wasn’t it?” The words left her mouth before Belle could even think about stopping them. Either way, she wanted the truth one way or another, and the question would have eventually had to be asked, whether it be from her or someone else. Ignoring Quasi’s dawning look of outrage as his face drained of all colors, she stared at Agathe.

“A test?” Agathe asked, feigning ignorance as she looked at Belle enquiringly, cocking her head to the side in curiosity.

“Yes,” Belle breathed, feeling her brown, almond-shaped eyes go wide and round with shock. “Of the Prince’s intentions. You wanted to see how he would treat me in my husband’s absence.” By God, it all was beginning to make sense to her now.

Belle, as her temper and dismay flared within her chest, held nothing back from the woman she had met at her father’s tomb, confronting the older woman, this witch, only as much as able.

The intuitive young woman could swear there was a spark of intrigue glinting in the older woman’s eyes as Agathe stared silently. “You could have come for me earlier,” huffed Belle, the faintest hint of indignation laced throughout her reserved tones.

“Then I would not know the full extent of our Prince’s cruelty, and I wouldn’t know as much as I do now, would I, child?” Belle did not know what she had been expecting from Agathe, but for the woman to suddenly confirm her suspicions was not exactly it, to say the least. “And you are not hurt, dear.”

“No,” Belle admitted sourly. “It is a victory for you, it would seem,” she murmured, giving Quasi’s hand a light reassuring squeeze as resentment welled within her, though she did her absolute best to contain it, ever mindful of her feigned courtesies.

“Yes.” Agathe stared at Belle, Quasi, and Madellaine in silence, and Belle withstood Agathe’s gaze, her own gaze unabashed and unwavering as their eyes locked and held a private conversation of their own. She was trying her hardest to keep her feelings contained within her and not let the others see them.

To not let them reach her eyes, though Belle was startled initially when Agathe spoke up. “I suggest you make your way through the Wolves’ Woods by following the edge of its borders. Go that way,” she muttered thoughtfully, pointing a finger to the east, “and will lead you on a direct path back to your cathedral, and when you get inside, might I suggest that you stay there. What our city’s Prince put you through must have been…tiring.”

_Tiring_?!? Such a fitting word to describe a grotesque situation where she had almost been violated at the hands of the Prince that made Belle shudder at the very thought, and she was only grateful when she felt her husband’s hand on her shoulder, turning her around so she was facing away from Agathe and made to head back towards the inner limits of Paris without so much as a goodbye to Agathe. Belle inclined her head slightly, silently trying to thank Quasi for his support in helping her to walk home, as her body would very clearly not stand for little else on this day.

Her body leaned heavily against Quasi’s slightly misshapen form, with the blonde lass, Madellaine’ clutching onto her other arm to help her walk. She did not know this girl from Eve, but nevertheless, Belle was grateful for the extra assistance, though she lacked the strength at the moment to voice her gratitude.

As the three trudged and traipsed their way through the Wolves’ Wood, Belle slowly but surely felt the agitation leave her.

Though what it left her with was a horrible aching feeling in the pit of her chest as it felt hollow and empty, along with a sense of dread that was like a spider leaving a careful trail of silk down her spine that she could not seem to shake off, no matter how hard she tried. Hatred and anger coursed through her bloodstream, surging as a vent of adrenaline as she thought of what the Prince of these lands had almost gotten away with.

She would not admit it, not to Quasi, not to this Madellaine, not to anyone, but she didn’t believe that Agathe’s attempt to reason and talk with Prince Adam would be enough for the _beast_.

Belle was combined with an intense desire to see the Prince get his due justice, she could only pray and hope for that much.

Slowly but surely, the hazy fog lifted its veil from her clouded mind as it regained its ability focus as she swore she could see the illustrious towers and parapets of Notre Dame in the distance once they reached the edge of the Wolves’ Woods, and Belle was able to reach some important conclusions right now.

There were monsters, monsters like the Prince and Quasi’s own father figure, Judge Frollo, who sought to take her, to claim her for themselves and themselves alone, her status as a married woman to the church’s bell ringer notwithstanding, though there were those who did not see their union as fully legal in their eyes.

Therefore, people like this Prince would have no qualms about denouncing the legitimacy of her marriage and taking what they believed was to be rightfully theirs. In this case, it was _her_. Belle had met more than enough monsters in her lifetime to know that there would always be someone worse.

Men like Gaston, like this Prince Adam, like Frollo. And taking into consideration she was married to a man who was scorned for his appearance, collectively speaking, worrying about what Agathe would ‘say’ to this Prince to convince him to change, ranked relatively low on her list, for all she wanted to do now was sleep.

There were no tears left in her to shed, and her words spent, unable to calm her nerves in any other way but to try to sleep it off, though as the towering structure of Notre Dame de Paris came into her line of sight and as the trio reached the front steps of the illustrious church, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach as she was met with a sight that she hoped never to lay eyes on again.

The Judge. Belle swallowed nervously as the man’s grey, listless orbs fixated on that of his ward, and Belle felt Quasi flinch.

She herself felt her knees go weak and her heart dropped to the pit of her churning stomach as a coil in her gut twisted in a nauseating fashion as Belle felt the fear well up from within her.

Belle could tell by the wild, unhinged look in Judge Frollo’s eyes that the man was incredibly unstable, volatile, and dangerous, and she did not trust her husband left alone in his company, not even for a second. Without her husband by her side, she would be left alone in a strange world, pregnant, and with no one else who understood her quite as well as the church’s bell ringer did, and if she had nothing to distract her from her own mind, and from thoughts of her deceased husband, Gaston, and now this Prince who had set his sights upon her, she feared her dark swirling vortex of wicked, unpleasant thoughts would engulf her completely.

Yet, the worst thought of all was not knowing if he would be safe if she were to leave the man alone in _his_ company.

“Belle,” Quasi murmured, his tenor-like voice hardened considerably as a muscle in his jaw and behind his eye twitched. “I want you to go inside with Madellaine and see Sister Alice. She’ll take you upstairs, make sure you are not injured. I want you to _eat_. I will join you shortly, but …Master and I need to talk. _Alone_.”

The note of steel in Quasimodo’s voice was unmistakable, and Belle shirked away as she recognized her husband did not want to hear any arguing from her on her part, no tricks at all.

“But Quasi, the Judge is just as much _my_ problem as he is _yours_!” whisper-hissed Belle through gritted teeth as Quasi turned, standing on the front step of the cathedral, relinquishing his arm from around her waist, causing Belle to glance down.

She wished for nothing more than to take the man by his arm and drag him inside their precious sanctuary, to plead with the bell ringer not to do this, that he did not have to put himself through this, whatever ‘this’ was, that Frollo wanted of him.

Quasi stood silently before Belle, watching her, his face so sullen that it sent a chill down Belle’s spine. His deep blue pleading eyes, silently begging with his wife for her to once obey his command and do as he asked, practically piercing her soul.

Her lungs felt starved for breath as she gasped in copious amounts of frigid cold oxygen, courtesy of the bitter Parisian breeze, but it burned them with its purity, and Belle was at a loss.

“Whatever problems you have with the Judge, Belle, I can assure you, they are insignificant compared to what he wants with me,” Quasi growled, no semblances or traces of warmth in his quiet, kind, tenor-like tones as his eyes narrowed at the Judge.

“Please don’t do this,” Belle begged, biting the wall of her cheek and then her lip. “I don’t think I need to be the one to tell you that Frollo is an unstable man and dangerous, Quasimodo.”

She felt her husband stun at her words, though his face remained impassive and he was quite good at hiding his surprise, though the moment the redhaired bell ringer lifted his chin and his gaze to meet his wife’s darkening eyes, his blue eyes filled with astonishment as his cracked lips parted open slightly in shock, though when he attempted to speak, to offer some words of comfort to her, all that came was a strangled attempt at speech.

“ _Don’t_.” Belle pleaded with Quasi, trying one last time, and she huffed in frustration and in an unrestrained fashion when she could sense her husband was not about to change his mind. She glanced down at her hands and nervously fidgeted with her fingers, weaving her fingers in between white-boned knuckles, and toying lovingly with her gold wedding ring. “Please. Come inside.” She was begging him now, and she did not flinch even when she heard the warbling crack and faltering dip of her tone.

But Notre Dame’s bell ringer shook his head as his cobalt pale blue orbs clouded over and Quasimodo turned away from his wife as Madellaine gingerly took Belle by the hand and began to pull her up the steps and towards the front doors of the cathedral, much to her protesting as she insisted that she wanted to stay.

“ _Please_ ,” Belle begged, halting in her movements, and digging the heels of her brown leather boots firmly into the cold stone of the mezzanine beneath her boots as she looked towards Quasi. “All throughout your life, you’ve been his puppet, Quasi,” Belle continued, wanting to express the deepest sentiments of her heart before it was too late in case something happened to him. “For so long, you were powerless against the Judge’s evil manipulation. I had hoped that, when I married you, that I could give you the kind of selfless affection that you had never known. Please don’t throw all that away for _him_. Please come inside…please don't do this...”

Quasi paused, ignoring the Judge’s flushed face of outrage as he looked sadly at Belle, his blue eyes boring into hers, pleading silently for his wife to understand why he had to do this, why he had no other choice. He smiled tenderly at his wife before reaching up and brushing away a strand of her hair that had fallen in front of her face.

“I know that I feel as though I don’t deserve you, and maybe that is true, but…I _do_ love you,” he whispered, looking away and towards the Judge as Belle fought the tears that stung at the edges of her eyes. “Now _go_. Go inside. _Stay_ there.”

She reluctantly allowed Madellaine to lead her towards the doors of the cathedral, but not before she risked one last glance over her shoulder, looking back at Quasi with a pained gaze.

Perhaps somewhere, deep within the recesses of her heart, Belle knew it could have ended no other way. There had always been something pulling Quasi away from her, and that ‘something’ was currently standing less than ten feet away from him, shooting him a look that Belle could only perceive as venomous, dagger eyes if such a look ever existed in a man.

Belle doubted that anything could have been done to change Quasi’s mind as the two men faced one another, the tension mounting. If the hatred between the two would have been a color in the air, the entire town square in front of Notre Dame would have been scarlet, Belle thought, feeling a stab of fear prick her heart.

“Please…be careful,” Belle whispered in a low voice, her words clumsy, though she hoped that her husband could hear.

He shot her a look that suggested to Belle he’d heard it. A gust of wind blew her hair away off her face and shoulders and reluctantly, Belle allowed Madellaine to open the wide oak double doors of the cathedral and away from that of her husband. As Belle guided the way to Sister Alice’s quarters located near the kitchens, she tried not to give too much heed to the frightening notion that ran through her mind as her eyes returned to the corridor in front of her that, for some reason, Belle felt that she would never see her husband again, and it was much too late to go back, for there was nothing that she could do to help him.

This was his battle to fight. And she could not help him.


	44. Save Me, Beloved

**A/N: I hope all is well with everyone! And here I am again, apologizing for the almost month-long delay in updating. How can ending a fic suddenly turn out so bloody difficult? I had originally started this chapter with the Prince and Madellaine's sister, Maria, and Agathe, but there was this very big plot hole with Judge Frollo still in the picture, so I had to re-do this chapter from a completely different angle, and as a consequence, changed most of the remaining plot. Lol.**

**Please do bear with me, and I appreciate your patience. As always, my lovely readers, my work is at your terrible mercy, and I will warn you, this is going to be a difficult chapter to get through, but rest assured, this story** ** DOES ** **have a Happy Ending.**

**My love and prayers for your safety during quarantine!**

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-THREE**

**A** horrible feeling of dread threatened to engulf Notre Dame's bell ringer as Quasi stood on the front steps of the massive cathedral, staring down at the demon who he had once called Father, a man who had haunted him for as long as he could possibly remember. The beast he had known as Father and Master loomed at the top of the stairwell, waiting for his young ward to approach him.

At any other time, he supposed the calmness of the dull and grievous grey skies above their heads, the wind that carried the faint scent of a rainfall that would surely turn to snow if it were cold enough, would have driven him near enough to madness, this cold eerie stillness, but not today. He was filled with an overwhelming urge to protect his wife and unborn child, those that he loved.

Every muscle in Quasi's wretched body was tense, ready to do what he had to as he began to ascend the steps of Notre Dame, feeling like his feet were filled with lead, as a coil in his gut within his stomach gave a lurch.

His icy cold stare devoid of warmth was fixated solely on Master Frollo, whose piercing eyes of grey met his with an equally hardened and loveless look as Quasi climbed. Slowly, purposefully, he prepared to meet his fate.

Were that he was to die today by Father's hand, he supposed he could live with such a death if it meant that Belle and his child would be safe within the cathedral's walls. She would have Sister Alice and the Archdeacon to look after her, and she would remember him, he hoped, any time she would look into their child's eyes once born.

Above him, the towering, slender figure of Judge Claude Frollo threatened, and Quasimodo supposed he could not recollect a time in his life when he'd felt smaller, though he towered over the Judge at around 6'2.

Glaring ahead of him, the red-haired bell ringer was certain he had seen his last sunrise and sunset on this eve.

He prepared solemnly for one last conversation with his father figure, if Master Frollo would grant him that, and started to climb the steps, prepared to meet his fate.

"Quasi!" A timid, fearful voice, soft and faint, barely audible over the harsh gust of wind that whipped its way through the cathedral's town square, choked out from seemingly out of nowhere from behind Master Frollo, breaking Quasi's concentration and tearing his gaze away from that of the Judge's, whose face drained in shock.

Spinning around angrily on the heels of his brown leather boots, the bell ringer was ready to unleash his wrath on the little blonde Barreau girl of Clopin's camps.

He had told Madellaine to go inside and tend to his wife, was she incapable of even following one request?! He had thought she'd gone inside, but if she hadn't, there was no way Quasimodo could guarantee her safety.

Grinding his teeth in anger, he craned his neck to peer over Judge Frollo's slender, bony shoulder, but he froze, his breath catching in his throat when he realized who it was that had spoken his name so softly, so near to Hell.

As awareness dawned within him, the blood ran cold in his veins and turned to his and he was rendered utterly breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

It was not Madellaine de Barreau, that thief, who had called out to him, as Quasimodo had first suspected. For perhaps the first time since returning home to the only place besides the River Seine that was familiar to him, so intent on his path and confronting the Judge for what he had done, terror seized at his heart.

Just behind Frollo, standing with her back pressed against the front doors of the cathedral, Quasi saw with his wretched sight out of his one good eye that wasn't bloody blind, the site most precious to him in all of Paris, Belle's sweet, beautiful face peering out at him, a look of utter terror upon her face.

"Belle!" he shouted, his blue eyes wide with shock. Belle merely stared back at him from in front of the wide oak double doors. Her face was much too pale, too ashen to be considered healthy, her gaze stricken with terror, but nevertheless held an intense resolve that Quasi admired.

Quasimodo had seen it within Belle's gaze several times before, and each time, it never failed to impress.

It was the same resolute look she wore the night at the River Seine with Gaston, that bastard, that monster, had so cruelly and cold-bloodedly murdered her father, Maurice, right in front of her, his own hound dogs ripping the poor old inventor to shreds in front of Belle.

Despite what Gaston had taken from her, what he had done to her, getting her with child, forcing her into a loveless marriage, her face still held the same determined expression back then as Quasimodo saw on her face now.

Belle so often shone with a fierce, burning determination and an inner strength she didn't even know she possessed, but he knew it and cherished it.

"Belle?!" Quasi repeated, his voice a hoarse rasp, ignoring Frollo's barely stifled growl of anger from deep within his chest as he too whirled on the heels of his boots to better look the young brunette in the eyes as she cautiously approached, nervously fidgeting with her gold wedding band she wore proudly on her finger. " _What are you doing out here_?" he yelled. " _I told you to stay inside_!"

She flinched at hearing the hardened edges to her husband's sweet, tenor-like tones, thinking this was perhaps the second time she had seen Quasi so… _furious_. His cobalt pale blue orbs had darkened, almost cerulean in color, and were now filled with a smoldering, fathomless rage that reminded her of the pits of Tartarus itself.

And Belle was even quicker to decide that she did not like it at all. "I—I couldn't stand not knowing," Belle replied, sounding winded and out of breath as she clutched at a stitch in her side. This worried him greatly.

He hoped nothing was wrong with their baby. But he had no time to ponder this horrible thought that was now creeping and spreading into his mind like a plague. Belle took a meek step towards Quasimodo, skirting around the Judge as best as she possibly could. As she did so, Claude Frollo hulked downward, one step closer to the young married couple.

Quasi could not help but watch in sheer, unbridled terror, and horror as the danger to his beautiful wife grew the more Master advanced on her. He did not like the unhinged look in his eyes, nor how his thick tuft of short salt and pepper hair was disheveled, as though Master had been pulling on it.

Quasi let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat as Master Frollo continued to advance on them, his hungered gaze more fixated on Belle than his ward.

He would die before he'd _ever_ allow his father near his wife.

Flinging out an arm in front of Belle, preventing the young brunette from taking one step further to help him, he gnashed his teeth together angrily and assumed a defensive position, standing upright to his full height so that he towered well over the Judge, and for a moment, he saw Claude's resolve waver, as a flicker of fear darted through the distinguished judge's steely grey-blue orbs.

Belle's attentions were fixated completely on Quasi. Somehow, despite the imminent danger the Judge in his mania posed to them both, she had to make him hear her plea.

"Please, Quasi," Belle begged tearfully, imploring her husband to see reason and come inside. "Don't _do_ this…"

Quasi blinked owlishly at her words before quickly recovering and turning his head to look at his wife with compassion. He gave his head a curt shake and stifled a low growl of annoyance as that one stubborn lock of fiery ginger hair never failed to make its way in front of his eyes. With one fell swoop of his gloved hand, he carded it out of the way and forced himself to meet Belle's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he atoned. "But I have to. Nothing can change this." He fell silent as his voice cracked and broke, trailing off as his gaze flitted towards the Judge, whose fist had tightened around the hilt of a sword.

" _Nothing_?" Belle breathed, questioning Quasimodo as the two unusual lovers, fringe partners by default because no one else would have them, stood in mortal peril staring at one another as though nothing else mattered. She was silent for a moment, her dark chocolate eyes desperately searching Quasi's for the honest truth.

When she spoke again, her quiet, kind, shy voice was in the most earnest and solemn tone Notre Dame's bell ringer had ever heard.

"Quasi, _please_." She voiced his wretched name as though it were a precious prayer. "Don't do this. _Don't_ ," she begged. "I…I _love_ you. I've _always_ loved you," she confessed. "I always will. _Don't_."

Quasimodo blinked, staring at Belle in awe and wonder, her words hanging around him like a warm woolen cloak. There she was. His dark-eyed, beautiful angle with the dark chocolate wavy locks and the fingertips of flame that scorched and burned his skin every time Belle touched him. He swallowed hard down past a lump in his throat and blinked again at her words.

Their marriage had been strictly one of convenience, or so he had been led to believe. Never in a million years did Quasimodo dare to hope that Belle would hold such feelings for him. The same love and affection he'd held for the brunette beauty that stole his breath away that fateful night when she'd dared to wander up to his tower.

But Belle hardly gave the red-haired bell ringer any time at all to react, wanting to continue with her confession of true, genuine love she held for her husband. This might be the only time the two of them had left.

"I…I've wanted to tell you for a long time since we…married, but I…could never quite find the words," Belle admitted shyly, giving Quasi's gloved hand a squeeze. "I want you to stay by my side. Our baby needs its father," she whispered, tears finally spilling from her lids as she swallowed thickly past the lump in her throat.

Quasimodo stared at Belle, unable to believe what he was hearing, wondering if this was fate's idea of a joke.

Again, Belle continued, wanting to speak the words from her heart so he knew the truth before it was too late. "I _know_ you feel the same for me, Quasi," she sighed longingly as she held his intense gaze in hers, ignoring Frollo's slow, calculating, methodical approach behind. "I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. It's there."

Belle was right. Of course, his wife was right. Belle was the only good thing his calloused, damaged heart had known since La Esmeralda's death. The most important thing in the world to him now was to keep Belle and their unborn babe safe, but perhaps, even from himself.

He loved her more than he could imagine any man had ever loved a woman.

"Belle," Quasi whispered in a breathless voice, trying to ignore the warbling note of fear in his voice as Master Frollo continued stalking his way down the steps in a slow, methodical manner. Quasi's voice was pained and soft as he confessed his true feelings. "I've loved you since the first moment I saw you."

Even on the front steps of the cathedral that was sure to become his tomb, Quasi favored his wife's words. She had one final plea, one push that would hopefully push him over the edge and convince him to follow her.

"Then come back _inside_ ," she implored him desperately. "Come with me. Come _home_ with me."

"Home," Quasi repeated, finding himself dumbstruck, speechless, and at a loss for what to say to his wife.

_She_ was his home, his Belle. Every part of his being screamed at him to take Belle in his arms and scale the walls of the cathedral, her comfort be damned, if it meant she would be safe from Master's wrath, then so be it, but he feared not even his best efforts would keep either of them safe.

His worry wormed its way into his churning stomach as Master Frollo continued his methodical descent down the stone steps of Notre Dame, his sword unsheathed.

"I see it now," rasped the Judge in a hoarse voice that sounded more amused than anything as he paused mid-step. The man could take his time, as a distraction had come to take Quasimodo's attention, that being of Belle.

Claude pursed his lips into a thin line as his steely grey eyes narrowed, flitting back and forth between the two.

"She has spelled you, my son. Witchcraft at its finest."

Quasi wrapped Belle in his arms and shielded her body with his own as best as he could. Judge Frollo chose that moment when his young ward would surely be unable to fight against him, to charge, bounding down the steps, closing in on Quasimodo and Belle, the consequences of committing yet another murder on Holy Ground be damned.

Belle gasped, certain she and her husband were going to die here in front of the illustrious cathedral, that magnificent place that she had come to call her home. But at least, they would die together in each other's arms. Where both of them knew she belonged. Forever. Belle felt a sudden urge to do something to comfort Quasi, but also herself, if this were the last time that she would hold him, kiss him, she wanted to make it count.

In a single moment, she pressed her lips against his, felt his body loosen, his arms touch her shoulders. Quasi stared deep into her dark chocolate brown eyes. His other gloved hand shook slightly, still cupping her chin in his hand, his mind screaming at him to take her away, to stop this before Master Frollo could hurt them both.

Belle had to lean up on her tiptoes to whisper something into the shell of her husband's ear, lowering her voice and ensuring that only Quasi heard her words.

"I would rather die here with you than face a world without you," Belle proclaimed in a fearful voice, timidly.

The sound of his heart was beating so loudly, Quasi couldn't seem to be able to concentrate on anything else. It felt like he was going to implode if he didn't do something. His lips touched his wife's lips, gentle, at first.

The steps of Notre Dame de Paris and their impending doom as Frollo swiftly descended the steps towards them, felt like it was slowly disappearing around the two of them, along with their troubles, worries, and problems.

For a moment, he forgot about the bastard he had once called Father, that was now surely about to kill him. Or the fact that his wife, his lovely Belle, was here by his side, not wanting to abandon him for a moment.

Belle made Quasimodo feel like none of that mattered. It was a small, yet warm kiss. He honestly never knew a kiss so innocent could be so intimate and such a bringer of warmth, sending an incredible heat spiraling through his accursed, wretched body, changing his blood, igniting it hotter than any dragon could ever flame as it coursed through his veins.

Her lips were moving in perfect sync, his hands feeling her waist. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, slightly more passionate than before. Quasi felt her hands on the back of his neck play with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on his face as it started to tickle.

Finally, they pulled apart, and he reluctantly took a step or two backward, loosening his grip on her waist.

Immediately, something was wrong, he could tell.

Her face was deathly white, far too pale to be considered healthy. Crimson stained her left ribcage, and she let out a breathy little squeak. The blood flowed thickly over her fingers, warm and sticky, garish.

" **NO**!" Quasi screamed, watching as his wife's legs began to crumble and give out beneath her. He reached up with stained crimson palms that were trembling and gingerly pressed one of his hands over the wound in Belle's side, near her right ribcage. "No, no, no, Belle. No! Don't go to sleep. Fight it. Y—you must fight it. You're going to be okay, I promise," he whispered, leaning down, and brushing aside a lock of her dark hair to whisper it into her ear. "Stay awake. Fight it. Be strong. Do it for me."

He blinked back briny tears that he let freely fall, and it was only when a dark shadow loomed over the pair as he cradled her limp form in his arms that he became aware of Frollo coldly wiping his dagger with a white pristine handkerchief that had stained it blood red. The violent red of her wound stained Quasi's shaking hands as he adjusted her head so that it lolled back slightly against his elbow. The first thing he noticed was how white she looked and how fragile Belle felt.

She was like glass and now she was broken, not whole. The crimson color burned in Quasi's mind along with what Frollo had just done. A sickness crawled within him as he swallowed past the lump in his form and blinked back his briny tears.

A small sob worked its way out of his throat as he brushed back a lock of dark hair from her forehead as her eyes closed, the color rapidly draining from her face. Belle's eyelids fluttered open and she let out a tiny groan, her own hands clutching onto the wound.

"It hurts," Belle whimpered in a voice that was barely soft, if Quasi hadn't already been hanging onto her every word, then most likely, Quasi would have missed it. "Quasi, I…"

"I—I know it does," he croaked hoarsely, completely ignoring the cold scathing look in his master's eyes as the tall, imposing distinguished Judge towered over his bastard son, who had slumped against the stone steps of the front of the cathedral, careful to support her head in his arms, using his thighs as a means of support to hold her lower body. "I—I'm going to save you. Y-you're…home," he whispered, the pads of his fingertips caressing her too-white cheek.

"Home?" Seven hells, but her voice sounded much too faint. Belle was fading, and fast.

"With me," he pleaded, choking back another sob.

"Home," she repeated, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

"You can…you can stay up here. With me. Forever. Stay…" he pleaded, desperately snapping his fingers in front of her face, anything to try to keep Belle awake.

"I don't think…Forever?" she asked, smiling when he nodded, unable to seem to find the words to speak. "You're…you're such a good man, Quasi, and a good…" But she didn't get to finish her sentence as a violent coughing spell overtook the young woman's lungs, and she struggled to breathe.

There was no amount of horror that could prepare a person for seeing the life force ebb from another, the hopelessness, the tearing at the soul that was the departing of the other. That's how it felt for Quasi as he watched the color rapidly drain from Belle's face as her eyes closed, her head lolling to the side. It seemed a moment before Frollo spoke again.

When the Judge did, his baritone, listless voice was cold and emotionless.

"Is she _dead_ , boy?" he growled, coming to stand next to his bastard son and place a surprisingly tender hand on Quasi's back. "Well?"

Quasi let out a low guttural growl from the back of his throat as he felt his grip tighten on the young brunette's corpse. He was only briefly aware of the sound of running footsteps and the horrified yells and cries of outrage as Captain Phoebus came barreling out of the cathedral, alongside Father Darius, that former soldier, having been alerted by someone, probably Madellaine when she'd gone inside, as to what was going on outside on the front steps, both men holding steel swords, looks of outrage and anger on their rapidly paling faces, but Quasi did not pay attention to the new arrivals.

"Because of _you_ ," he snarled, no warmth left in his voice. Not anymore. There would be no love for the man who he had once considered a father. Quasi wondered if he could lose his humanity in a single moment.

If humanity were something that could leave forever. Or if it had a deep place inside of everyone, even when he swore that he wasn't there? Some of them showed it more than others, perhaps.

Others blocked it out, just as Quasi felt himself doing now. He was hardly human. Not anymore. The only thing left was a _monster_.

Did he still have humanity? Did he still have a soul after this? He had been human once. Maybe…he had been human the entire time, but… Maybe he had blocked all his humanity out so he could taste the only thing he craved now: _Revenge_.

A human stopped being a human when a human loses its humanity, and at the moment, Quasi knew as he cradled the lifeless corpse of the beautiful angel in his arms who held his heart that he would never love again, and it took the bell ringer of Notre Dame exactly five minutes for him to lose his. All that was left was… A _monster_.

He choked back another sob of anguish and continued his light caressing of Belle's dark hair, his hands finding purchase in the back of her hair. He felt that familiar spark of anger ignite deep within the pit of his chest as his gaze drifted down towards her lifeless pale face.

"You _killed_ her." It escaped from his chest as a hissed whisper.

"It was my duty, my son. The girl made her choice. She did not heed my warnings to stay away. Now we can finally go back to the way things _were_. Your mind will be set free from the confines of her tempting ways and her distractions, boy," he breathed, exhaling a shaking breath, his ironclad grip upon Quasi's shoulder tightening a little.

"No." His voice deepened, as did the growl rumbling in his chest. "Things will never go back to the way they were, Master. I had done _everything_ that you ever asked of me without complaint," he snarled. He spat the word 'Father' as though it were poison that had settled on his tongue.

He slowly stood, gingerly placing Belle's body on the ground, hardly noticing as Captain Phoebus and Alice, who had come out to see the commotion, God bless that woman, knelt to check for a pulse.

With one last glance, one look of distraught anguish over his shoulder at her lifeless corpse, still so beautiful, even in death, he felt the worst of his temper flare as Quasimodo turned back around to face Frollo. "What is it of me that you hate so much? **WHY DO YOU HATE ME**?" he growled.

"You'll see," responded Frollo, unfazed by his young ward's growing temper and ignoring his son's final question. "At last, you are free of this girl's evil spell. I have saved you. The poison that was corrupting your eternal soul has been vanquished alongside her. Now that you are free, your mind free of distractions, we can go on, as close as once we were, my dear son, here in our home. Just you and I, against the world. We're home here, in our sanctuary, and now, nothing is left to threaten it for you."

" **HOME**?" shouted Quasi, rising to his feet, and looking at his master, an incredulous look in his normally kind and bright blue eyes. "There _is_ no home, Father! Not without _her_!" he bellowed, waving an arm to the lifeless brunette currently cradled in Captain Phoebus's arms, who looked like he was fighting and losing against the urge to cry, knowing the captain considered Belle a dear friend.

"It was her choice, Quasi. I could have helped her, but she… she did not love you, my boy. Not in the way that you had hoped."

" _Love_?" hissed Quasi through gritted teeth, balling his gloved hands into fists. "What do _you_ know of love? Who have you _ever_ loved?"

Frollo's gray eyes flashed indignantly, and then something seemed to shift within the distinguished Judge and his expression softened momentarily. "I loved…I loved my brother!"

"You? _Love_ him?" Quasi could hardly believe what he heard.

"Yes, as I tried to love and teach you! I thought I change you. But you are _wicked_ , _weak! Evil_!" Spittle practically flew from Frollo's lips the more enraged he became.

" _No_ ," Quasi growled in a rough, coarse grating voice that did not at all sound like himself, striding towards his father in two quick strides, cutting off the gap of space between the two men, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose was practically touching his master's. " _You_ are the weak one. You're the wicked one!" He stood up straighter to his full height of 6'3, and even then, he towered over the Judge. "I would have butchered the whole world if that would but make you love me!" he bellowed. "I did everything you ever asked of me! **WHY? WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH**?!"

Quasi's gaze flitted to the dagger that lay in Frollo's hands, in a ready stance, prepared to plunge the hilt of his dagger deep into Quasi's chest, and that was when the boy finally snapped.

The throbbing pressure of the dark voices whispering evil words of malice, thoughts of harm, in Quasi's head finally exploded, along with a blood-curdling scream and a gash on Frollo's neck as he seized the Judge by the column of his pale throat, the blue veins throbbing and sticking out prominently as the Judge's gray eyes went wide with fear.

A series of memories rolled within Quasi's mind and with it, it earned his father a swift solid uppercut to the man's chiseled jawline, over and over again...

The years of abuse at Father's hand, every time his hand raised against Quasi in anger, how he had killed his mother when all Florika had been trying to do that night was to protect her child, and Frollo had murdered his poor mother. And Belle, the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him…Belle ascending the stairwell of his north tower loft, the beautiful young brunette in a gown of rich blue velvet. Her dark chocolate locks kissed by the sun, like rich cocoa, so strikingly dark against such pale skin, how her skin was ticklish at the nape, her dazzlingly kind and sweet white smile.

"Y-you don't want to hurt me," Frollo choked out in one last desperate pleading cry, turning his head to the side, and spitting out a mouthful of crimson blood, his white teeth stained a horrible garish red from the beating he had just taken. "Quasimodo, l—listen to me! You don't want to hurt me, boy!" he cried, his grey eyes desperately searching Quasi's for any semblance of the truth, of love.

_Yes, you do_ , the demons inside his head whispered, and at the sight of Captain Phoebus gingerly lifting Belle's lifeless form in his arms, his rage rekindled, and he let out a primal scream that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life and plunged his father's dagger deep into Frollo chest, digging it deep into the man's heart.

Quasi let out a growl at looked at the man's stupid, surprised eyes, and gave it a deep twist for good measure, grinding his teeth in anger. He shoved the Judge's fading body aside as he rolled to one side, groaning, and gurgling as he bled out, his skin graying as the life force left the Judge's gray eyes.

Panting heavily from the exertion at the horrible deed he had just committed, though he desperately wanted to believe it was a necessary evil, he hung his head, bathed in crimson and torn, dirtied pale skin.

His shoulders began to heave in the release of his entire life's worth of anguish and unspeakable pain, his throat screaming and aching for relief. Hot tears marred his vision and behind him, he could hear the catching of Phoebus's and Alice's breaths inhale sharply as they too, looked upon the horrifying scene before him: the boy had, at last, killed his own father in cold blood on the steps of Notre Dame, just as Frollo had killed the boy's mother.

Only death may pay for life, and the Judge had just paid for the boy's mother, and now his wife's, with his.

"Sh—she's _alive_ , boy," Captain Phoebus spoke up in a rough, coarse voice. "She still has a pulse. Faint, but it's there," he muttered sadly, meeting the younger man halfway as Quasi bolted up the steps of Notre Dame, without so much as sparing Frollo's lifeless, blood-stained corpse so much as a second glance.

He only had eyes for his wife, who was laying seemingly lifeless in the golden-haired captain's arms, her head lolled back against the crook of his elbow. But God be damned, Belle looked like a corpse, even more so when she had lost her poor father.

"Here," Captain Phoebus said immediately, gingerly shifting Belle's form to his own, effectively relieving Captain Phoebus of having to carry her weight, not that the man couldn't handle it. Phoebus was strong in his own right. She weighed practically next to nothing in his strong arms.

"Be sure to support her head," advised Alice quietly.

"I would _never_ harm Belle, Alice!" he snarled through gritted teeth. He shot the aging nun a truly glowering look as he, using the cathedral's cold stone wall as a brace, gently lowered himself to the floor, cradling her in his arms. He just wanted her back so badly that it ached. To watching Belle go from vibrant, full of life and alive, to _this_.

It played repeatedly as if his brain was unwilling to let the images go and its attempts to analyze them, made Quasi see them all over again, when he just wanted Belle back, the way she was, for their lives to go on as they had been.

He knew the more he tried to repress it, the more it would just play again, but he couldn't help it. Streaks of fire burned his cheeks as he cried. Each new wave a hot trail of agony as he gently rocked Belle back and forth in his arms, as if he could force her to wake up that way.

The fire of shame and anger at his failure to protect the woman most important to him burned just underneath his pale skin and a deep emptiness filled his heart as the sentiments brewed over and boiled past the seams he could no longer hold together. There was no hope for a man who cried to his death, drowning himself in the tears of his personal hell.

"Look what he's done to you," he wailed, burying his head in her hair. "I'm…so _sorry_ …"

He was grateful she wasn't awake to hear him cry like this. She'd always hated it, and it was rare that he did, and he reviled the act, considering it a sign of weakness during times of immense stress, but this definitely counted as a stressful situation, and he felt that it was highly warranted this time.

_I'll get you out, Belle. I promise_ … A stray tear slid down Quasi's cheek. He was crying for her. The first time in perhaps his entire adult life, he was crying for a woman that he loved. He cried, and Belle wasn't even awake to mercilessly tease him about it. Quasi gingerly raised a hand, smoothing back a stray strand of dark brown wavy hair back behind her ear. Belle's spirit was gentle, and her very presence was like the sun itself, and without it, his life was worth nothing.

How could he be expected to continue, when he would never see her smile that beautiful white, infectious smile that lit him up from the inside again? Lifting her limp form just so, burying his face in her hair, allowing the sweet scents of lavender and honeysuckle to fill his nostrils, his jaw rooted shut.

Clenching his eyes shut, his teeth rooted in the effort to stay calm. But he just couldn't. The dam broke, and suddenly, he felt his tears begin to slide down his face. It was more than just crying. It was the kind of desolate sobbing that came from a person drained of all hope. He was only vaguely aware of Sister Alice wrapping her arms around his middle as she knelt on the front steps of Notre Dame, doing what she could to convey some small measure of comfort to the young man she considered like a son to her.

He cared not for her blood from her various cuts and bruises that soaked his thick green woolen tunic or stained his palms, his leather hide gloves now permanently red.

His gasping screams echoed around the otherwise empty town square, considering the lateness of the hour that they had arrived back at Notre Dame, when all others were sound asleep in the safety of their own beds, blissfully unaware of the violence and bloodshed that had occurred just outside the cathedral's doors.

The pain that flowed from Quasi was as palpable as the frigid winter air and soon the only other being at his side was Sister Alice herself, struggling to keep her own tears silent, looking down at her.

Quasi had to believe that she was safe somehow, comfortable.

"I…" His voice broke. Ever since they'd begun listening to each other, he could not bring himself to say the three words since their first night together. It was far too intimate a saying for him to just say every day like he saw other couples do, sometimes he wondered if they truly meant it, as he felt for Belle, and he meant every word. But if there was a chance that saying it would bring her back to him… "I love you, Belle," he whispered, choking back a half-sob.

_There_. He'd _said_ it, the thing that he never thought he would utter once from his lips in his lifetime. Hard, wracking sobs shook his frame, yet he no longer gave a goddamn. He was only barely aware of the sound of the nun saying something.

"She…she…" But he could not make himself say the words. Not again... He didn't care if Alice or Phoebus saw. The look of heartbreak in Alice's eyes was almost too much for Quasi to bear to look at.

Sensing Quasi needed a minute, Alice quickly escorted Phoebus and Darius back inside the cathedral, promising to fetch the Archdeacon immediately to tend to both their wounds and give the girl a proper burial if she was already dead.

He let out a hiss through clenched teeth and rooted jaw as his fingers curled into fists in her hair.

Quasi was not certain he had ever experienced grief this bad before, though now, it snuck up behind him quietly and took him under its arms in an instant. He felt so lost, so alone.

He was lost mostly because he had lost a part of himself that he knew he could not get her back. Yet he wanted her back so bad as his very life depended on Belle being by his side, but it was gone. She was gone. Vanished.

At first, Quasi thought as he buried his face in her hair, fighting back his tears, that grief was something so depressing and bad that it took him ten feet under the earth, but right now, he learned that it was just the price he had to pay for daring to learn how to love someone. His eyes flung wide open as he felt the slightest shift of movement within his arms.

" _I love you, too._ "


	45. I Can Save Her

**CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR**

Madellaine de Barreau glanced around the illustrious nave of the cathedral in awe and wonderment, unable to recollect if she had ever set foot in such a magical place. She rested with her back against the cold stone wall, just near the front door, tears leaking out of the corners of her bright blue eyes, wondering if she would ever be reunited with her sister again, and what had become of the lady Belle who had managed to give her the slip.

The young blonde sniffed, wiping at her nose with the edge of her sleeve. She should have tried harder. For herself. For Maria. And now, for Belle.

She’d gone outside to wait for _him_ , she just knew it.

And there was every possibility she wasn’t coming back, though the moment the wide double oak doors of the cathedral swung open and the church’s bell ringer barreled in through the door, his wife’s limp and unresponsive figure in his arms, her face, what little color was left within, had drained.

“Oh, _God_ , what...what happened to her, there's... th—the blood, there’s so much _blood_ ,” she whispered in a faint and horrified voice, clamping her hand over her mouth as she bounded forward on her heels to assist and help the distraught man in whatever way that she possibly could.

Her eyes grew wide with alarm as she raised a shaking hand towards the young brunette mademoiselle’s wounds. She had been stabbed in the ribcage by something, a blade of sorts, and this was assuredly the work of the Judge, Madellaine sensed it.

“She—Frollo stabbed her. H—he’s dead now. H—help me stop the bleeding!” Quasi bellowed, causing the fine hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright in fear and alarm, the edges of the man’s otherwise smooth and melodious voice now hardened, rough, coarse, grating, rather like sandpaper. Her dress was soaked with blood that continued to seep from her wound and onto the black and white checkered tiled floor.

“We need to—to get her somewhere to a space where I can work,” Madellaine commanded, a faint warbling note in her voice as she swallowed down thickly past the lump in her throat. “I—I can fix her, I _think_ , I’m experienced in these sorts of treatments. Is there such a place?” she questioned, hardly having time to blink as the cathedral’s bell ringer nodded, his grip on his wife’s form tightening further as he inclined his head, bolting so fast up a darkened stone stairwell off to Madellaine’s left so fast that the poor man was almost a blur, in near hysterics.

Though she couldn’t fault the man for that. If her husband had been stabbed, she supposed she’d feel near tears too. Heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, the young blonde thief was forced to gather the skirts of her dress in her fists to avoid tripping over the long hem of her dress as she climbed after the hysterical man at a grueling place, cursing under her breath for how many damned bloody stairs there were.

She was still panting and gasping for air when she reached out her hand to pull back a length of a tattered old maroon curtain that looked like it served as their makeshift bedroom.

The girl was well aware they were in one of the bell towers, and while this normally would have excited her at the prospect, she had more urgent matters to attend to. As the man gingerly set Belle’s form down on their makeshift mattress, she shuddered and groaned as if just that simple action caused her great pain. Quasimodo stiffened, turning at the waist, and gave Madellaine a threatening look that made the blonde shiver.

She felt this hostility towards her was unwarranted, but she wasn’t given a chance as a handsome bloke barreled his way up the stairs behind her, quite a looker, with chiseled features and the most strikingly azure crystalline eyes she had ever seen on a man before, though her heart sank as she recognized his clergyman’s robes. The man standing in front of her with the magnificent jawline and two-day stubble on his slender face and thick dark hair and blue eyes was a priest, and as a result, taken.

For a moment, she was stricken breathless until she remembered why she had come up to the bell tower in the first place. The priest stammered something under his breath darted towards a wooden table and returned a split second later, carrying a dark bottle and a rag. He shakily fumbled the bottle and poured some of the clear liquid onto the cloth and held for it a few seconds over Belle’s mouth and nose, jostling Quasimodo’s shoulder out of the way, much to his anger, in order to reach her. She struggled for a minute, but her bones went lax and relaxed, and within seconds, slipped into sleep.

“What happened?” the priest spat in a hardened voice, whirling on his heels once he ensured Belle would be comfortable, gingerly laying her head back against a pillow, her dark hair now a striking contrast to how ashen her face was.

It did not escape the blonde’s attention how the priest’s calloused hand lingered on the young woman’s cheek, almost tenderly, as a lover would. If the bell ringer was bothered by it, he didn’t show it, his face a mask of perfect apathy right now.

“ _Frollo_ ,” the bell ringer spat out of spite, no warmth left in his voice for the man who he’d once considered a father to him.

The priest groaned in frustration, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, barely throttling his urge to roar like an enraged dragon. “Is he…?” he asked, dreading hearing Quasimodo’s answer to the question he knew he needed an answer to. When the boy didn’t respond, a cold chill wafted down Darius’s spine that he knew had nothing to do with the damned drafty breezes of the younger man’s bell tower loft.

“ _Dead_ ,” was all the bell ringer answered in a cold voice, appearing relieved for a moment as he breathed out a shaking breath, though before Darius Barret could open his mouth to violently protest that a murder had more or less just been committed on the front steps of their House of God, he pursed his lips and turned towards Madellaine, who perched herself on the edge of the bed’s mattress, looking at her with desperation gleaming in his glistening pale blue irises. “Save my wife. _Please_ ,” he implored. Madellaine did not think she could speak at all.

It was clear that this…this _man_ , however unusual his appearance was, that he was very much in love with this belle, this beauty, this French Rose. All Madellaine could do was nod her head and pray the girl would pull through. For _his_ sake.

There was no time to lose. Madellaine turned from them, grabbed the necessary instruments that the handsome priest that made her feel strangely weak in the knees had shoved beside her elbow, wanting to also be of help in whatever way that he could, and began cutting an incision into Belle’s stained velvet gown.

Quasi steeled himself, a muscle in his jaw twitching, planning to remain by his wife’s side throughout the surgery, no matter what, though within moments of this plan forming in his mind, both he and Father Darius were asked to leave by her.

“ _Please_ ,” Madellaine implored the pair of men, peeking over her shoulder and looking at them with pleading blue eyes. “You’re both going to need to wait outside. I—I need space to work. Belle cannot heal from her injuries with you two present.”

Quasi bristled, gnashing his teeth together, and scowled a warning at the young blonde, fully prepared to give the thief of Clopin’s a piece of his mind if she demanded he leaves Belle’s side. Darius, sensing imminent danger brewing, yanked at his forearm, and pulled him from his and Belle’s sleeping nook.

Quasi, God bless him, fought the priest’s efforts every step of the way, leaving Darius with no choice but to wind his arms tightly around the man’s middle, grunting and gritting his teeth with the effort to drag the much stronger man away from Belle.

“Ngh—let go of me, Darius!” the bell ringer bellowed, not seeming to mind how his loud holler reverberated off the walls of his tower, causing Darius’s eardrums to ring with the sound. “I—I want her to know that I’m here! What if she…what if…” his voice cracked as he pleaded with the priest and his friend, his face pained as he finally ceased his wild efforts to break free.

“She—she _knows_ ,” Darius tried to comfort him, staggering backward, and clutching at a stitch in his side, panting heavily from the exertion of just managing to drag Quasimodo a few feet away from the area where he and Belle slept at night.

With no way of watching over Belle, and no one upon which to unleash his anger, Quasi gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from Father Darius, and let loose his fury on the wall. Clenching his curling gloved hand into a fist and letting out a long, furious, and heartbreakingly agonized yell, he slammed his knuckles over and over against the unmoving wood. His skin shredded against the rough wood.

However, Quasi felt no pain, his mind so focused on his wife and her ordeal. Would she and their baby be all right? The injury of his bleeding knuckles was nothing compared to what she was assuredly going through. Darius stood back, utterly terrified to approach the younger man, and gave him this release until the violent tempest of the man’s temper had passed him by, until he sank to his knees to the floor, panting and gasping raggedly, the worst of his anger spent against his new enemy, the wall. When there was no more air left in his lungs to scream, and no effort left in his heaving muscles, he moved against the wall and using it as a brace, remained on the floor, still terrified, but at least now, most of his energy was now spent on his release.

Cautiously, Father Darius slid down the wall and sat beside Quasi, wracking his brain for something to say to the poor boy.

“She’s in good hands, I think,” he encouraged, though even he felt as though his voice lacked the conviction to sell the argument that Darius really wanted to make. He did not know this young blonde lass who’d ventured into the cathedral now.

Not really. He’d been about to approach and ask the young mademoiselle her name and business within these stone walls when the door to the cathedral had opened and Quasimodo brought in his wife, his Belle, and all thoughts of speaking with the new arrival about why she was here fled from his mind then.

The two men sat in silence for only God knew how long as the world carried on around them. Word spread fast that Frollo was dead at the hands of his own son from witnesses who’d seen it, and Darius knew the church was going to have to do damage control at some point in the future, though he hoped the Parisians would be understanding. Truth be told, the smallfolk wanted the Judge dead just as much as everyone else.

He doubted if anybody would mourn for Claude. As loathed as he was to admit it, Darius knew that he wouldn’t.

Not after the pain and suffering he’d inflicted upon Quasi, who he considered something of a younger brother to him, and more recently, to that of his lovely wife, who it still pained him to look upon, though he very much considered Belle a friend.

There was a selfish part of him that saw his Hanna in Belle Dupont’s eyes whenever the inquisitive young brunette spoke to him, and that same part of him wanted to bottle her warmth and keep it in a tiny glass vial all to himself, close to his chest, never to share it and keep it as a treasure meant for him and him _alone_.

Finally, after a long, awkward pause, Father Darius found his words as he nervously fidgeted with his old wedding ring he still wore on his left ring finger, grateful the Archdeacon allowed him to wear it still, considering most of the time, the long sleeves of his itchy brown habit robes hid it from plain sight.

“It _isn’t_ your fault, Quasimodo. I…the church does not blame you for what happened. The judge _slipped_ on the stairs and broke his back and neck,” Darius said, speaking slowly and plainly. Quasi’s eyes widened upon hearing the young priest’s words, the dark-haired, younger man’s statement not fully registering with the distraught bell ringer until it hit him.

“You must be strong,” the priest continued, patting him on the arm and sensing the bell ringer’s hesitation. “You hear me? He _slipped_. Nothing more, and nothing less than that.”

“I—I should have…tried to reason with him, Darius,” Quasi heard himself saying in a hoarse, raspy voice that did not sound like himself at all, as he could not bear to look the younger man in those brilliant blue eyes of his and surely see the immense disappointment and anger that welled within him. “It’s my fault. I—I put Belle in danger. What kind of a husband am I to her if I cannot protect her, I—I could have stopped Master.”

Darius snorted through his nose, fighting back the urge to laugh at such a ridiculous-sounding statement coming from him.

“Judging by the man’s character, his mind was already too far gone. Your defending of your wife would have only incited Frollo’s wrath further, brother,” replied the priest, his blue eyes vivid and piercing, burning with a smoldering, fathomless rage that was unlike their gentle and soft-spoken, mild-mannered priest that at first, Quasi wasn’t sure what to make of the shift.

His gaze drifted towards the priest’s hands, nervously fidgeting with the ring on his finger. Quasi quirked his brows in suspicion. This was admittedly the first he’d seen of it on Darius. “I didn’t know our priests were allowed to marry,” he managed to croak out in a sardonic, hoarse gasp of surprise.

He watched, stunned, as the priest’s face flushed a mottled crimson and he quickly shook the overly large sleeve of his slightly too-big habit over his hand, hiding his ring from him.

“They’re…we’re _not_. It’s…nothing but a painful memory now, my old friend,” Father Darius stammered, suddenly looking incredibly uncomfortable and had trouble meeting the younger man’s gaze, much less summoning strength to look at him. “It’s not exactly a pleasant story, Quasi. A story for another time.”

The bell ringer nodded, still trying to ignore the sudden suspiciousness of this newfound revelation of knowing the man. Darius had been with them now a number of years, and it was no secret that the man was quite on good terms with Belle.

He always had a kind greeting or word to Belle as she aimlessly wandered the hallways of the cathedral, or a comment on what book she was reading, oftentimes with a suggestion of what he thought she should read next from the cathedral’s library. The fact that Darius had once been married was…new.

And even more disconcerting that he seemed reluctant to talk about it. He let out a growl of irritation and carded his fingers through his tuft of red hair, his lungs burning for air.

The bell ringer forced aside thoughts of the priest for now. Such musings of his friendship with Darius wouldn’t help him here, and his mind was only fixated on one thing: his suffering wife. Quasi ran his hand over his drawn and worried face. He raised his tear-filled eyes to the ceiling as a series of memories flitted through his head, of every wonderful moment he’d spent with his Belle.

He’d stopped imagining a life without her months ago when he had first married her. He knew that if this day ended without her, then he’d follow her to Heaven by his own hand, his own eternal soul be damned and who cared what the catholic church believed. A life without her was no life at all.

As the uncomfortable thought flitted through his mind, Madellaine poked her head around from around the corner before cautiously stepping over the threshold that separated their sleeping nook from the rest of the tower loft’s mezzanine.

The young blonde thief was deliberate in her movements, cautious but graceful, and her tired, worn face showed the exhaustion she wouldn’t allow her body to feel for hours yet. Quasi rose, unsteady on his face, a hand shot out to brace himself along the edge of the way as his equilibrium still felt off.

He was afraid to try to read Madellaine’s impassive expression. “My—my wife. H—how is she?” he asked, fear shadowing his hopes as his already pale face went utterly pallid.

Madellaine merely looked at the bell ringer, her face placid and thin eyebrows raised as her eyes made a quick scan of him. Her blue eyes were heavy and downcast. Taking a deep breath, she delivered the news while continuing to wipe her hands clean on a bloodied rag.

“Belle made it through the surgery, monsieur’s,” she reported, a wry smile finding her face.

Quasi thought his legs were going to give out from underneath him as he dissolved in relief as Darius latched onto his shoulders to steady his uneven gait and shook him happily. The bell ringer launched forward and embraced the young blonde, much to the girl’s surprise as a stunned, breathy squeak left her lips as the man very nearly drew the girl off her feet.

Madellaine smiled warmly, happy she could bring good news. However, the blonde was still cautious of declaring Belle fully mended.

“She—she’s not out of the woods yet, monsieur.” The girl immediately tempered both men’s happiness as her face fell somber. “Belle hasn’t yet woken up, and there is still a risk of infection,” she warned. “Her injury was a serious one. It will take time to heal, perhaps upwards of several weeks, sir.”

“When can I see her? I need to see her,” Quasi implored, his worry returning, though, for the woman’s sake who’d saved his wife’s life, he tried to ensure his voice remained quite level.

Madellaine smiled and motioned to the men with a wave of her arm. “You know where to find her, monsieur. In there…”

Quasi did not need to be told twice, bolting forward on his heels, and barreling through the curtain that had been drawn to give Madellaine privacy while she disinfected and stitched Belle’s wound, with Darius trailing slowly behind, not wanting to interfere and give the man a moment. Belle lay unresponsive and motionless on their marriage bed, covered with a thin grey pelt, her skin faded and pale from loss of so much lifeforce.

Her breathing was weak and shallow, escaping from her lips as tiny, ragged gasps. She appeared more dead than alive.

When he saw, Quasi’s legs really did buckle this time and he fell to the ground at their bedside, too stunned to really react.

Lacking the strength or wish to stand at this point, he knelt by his wife’s motionless form. He took her gentle, pale hand in his and pressed it to his lips. Unable to be strong for her any longer, he stroked her hair off her face as it splayed out on either side of her ashen face like a fan, bending his face to his, whispering her name with such a heartbreaking tenderness, that the girl and the priest standing in the doorway rather awkwardly and uncomfortably very nearly felt their own hearts cry out in the process, though neither made a move to speak. Quasi hovered over Belle, hot tears marring his vision and falling on her skin.

The distraught husband raised his eyes to her face, the pads of his fingertips tracing the familiar lines of her cheeks.

His mind became flooded with memories of the precious moments they had shared and visions of the life that he still hoped to enjoy with Belle. Madellaine and Father Darius stood at the bed, giving Quasi the much-needed time that he needed.

Finally, he managed to regain control of his voice, and when he did speak, his voice was quiet and a broken rasp. “When will my wife wake up?” he asked dryly, never once averting his gaze from Belle’s steadfast and steadily sleeping form. Even injured and teetering on the brink, his wife looked…peaceful.

Madellaine cleared her throat, suddenly appearing hesitant. “That’s…hard to say,” she stammered nervously, wary of yet another outburst from the bell ringer’s temper, not wanting herself to say the wrong thing that would set the man off. “Her body’s suffered much and been through a harrowing ordeal,” she said slowly, careful to ensure her voice remained calm. “Belle has to heal. That may take some time, and…” she paused.

She bit down on her bottom lip and seemed reluctant to continue, and only finished when Quasi’s head whiplashed sharply upward. “And?” he barked, turning slightly in the blonde’s direction, yet unwilling to take his eyes off Belle’s form.

He feared the reason Madellaine hadn’t finished her thought. Madellaine cleared her throat awkwardly and continued.

“Uh, well there’s…always the chance her wound might become infected.” The young woman cringed as the thought left her mouth, thinking she could not recall a time when she sounded more or less so cold and impersonal.

She looked pleadingly towards Darius for help.

“Belle’s a strong woman, Quasi,” Father Darius encouraged, slowly rubbing his hand over his growing two-day stubble on his jawline. The slender priest moved closer to Belle’s bedside, resting his hand supportively on Quasi’s shoulder. “She has a reason to fight,” he calmly reminded his friend, referring to both her life with Quasi here in the church and the newfound life currently growing in her belly, a few months along by now. “She’s not going to give up. Not after this.” Quasi nodded slightly, hearing the young man’s words, and looked at Belle.

He was hardly aware of Darius and Madellaine shuffling out of the room and giving him some time alone with his life.

Her breathing, Quasi was pleased to see, slowly looked like it was returning to normal. Occasionally her eyes would shift beneath her lids as if experiencing a dream or a memory that he was not privy to, that he could not see. The best he could hope for was that it was a good dream. That she was dreaming of _him_.

He wondered for a moment if her dream was a pleasant one or if she was seeing something dark and fearful that which she would rather not experience. His chest tightened and constricted, as did his throat as it hollowed at that thought. He did not want his Belle to see anymore darkness. No more fear, no more pain, no more death or suffering. Lord only knew that his wife had seen more than enough for her lifetime.

Tentatively, Quasi shrugged out of one of his gloves and tucked stray strands of her dark chocolate locks behind her ear.

As he did, the pads of his fingers brushed along the contour of her ear, he stilled his hand almost instantly, slightly startled at feeling just how soft and smooth the skin of her ear felt. He’d never really touched her ear before, but he was glad he had.

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Once her hair was off her shoulders and out of her face, Quasi pulled up the spare stool that Madellaine had previously been using to sit on while she worked to tend to his wife, folding his arms across his chest and scooting the chair back as quietly as he could so as to not disturb her in sleep, until his back was pressed firmly against the wall for support. He kept his head tilted towards his wife’s sleeping form.

No matter what happened when his Belle, his beauty woke up, he would be right by her side when she did.

He had promised her that. And he was a man of his word.

And he aimed to keep that promise, he thought tiredly, as the taxing events of today finally caught up to the man as his lids became heavy, as the sound of his wife’s breathing coupled with the rain from the thunderstorm that began outside, lulled him into sleep.


	46. The Longest Night

**CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE**

True to his word, Quasi kept a vigilant watch on his pregnant wife as the night passed, though the fever Belle was developing left much to be desired. He refused food or sleep, much to Darius and Madellaine’s chagrin, to the point of annoyance, where he would dismiss them and not answer them when they asked after him and insisted that he eat and sleep.

Darius checked on the church’s bell ringer and his friend constantly. The Archdeacon and a few of the nuns paid their respects and offered their prayers where it counted.

Madellaine, God bless the cute little blonde thief, continued to care for Belle and monitor her condition, though Quasi barely realized that she was in the tower at all. His misery was utterly relentless. Was his life _really_ doomed to be so hellish now? Even with Master Frollo gone, the pain of watching his sweet Belle fight for her life and being powerless to help her was more than he could possibly bear, and he didn’t know what to do, much less what to say to her that would help pull her out.

He blamed himself for not taking care of Master sooner. He sat beside Belle, holding her hands, arms aching something awful to gather the whole of her, to feel her body against his, and bargaining with God, if He even listened to a monster like him, to spare her life. To take _him_ instead if He wanted a life.

After two whole sleepless and agonizing days had passed, he finally heard her sweet beloved voice that sounded like music to his ears, which were otherwise filled with a fatigued ringing.

But something was wrong. Her voice was hushed, faint, and frantic, laced to the brim with a horrible sense of panic.

Another sob, this one set willfully free from its confines as her heartbeat, now a throbbing mass of corded muscle thundered relentlessly in her chest as her blood pressure spiked.

Her dark hair lay splayed across either side of Belle’s ashen face like a fan, blankets of their bed tossed and thrown about in harsh, almost violent twists. And her bandaged small hands clutched to the point of desperation at what sheets she could reach with trembling fingers. Yet it was his wife’s face that broke his heart, shattering it into fragmented little pieces.

Tears poured relentlessly from her closed but fluttering lids, flowing across her pale cheeks and down the gentle, graceful slope of her temple. Her color resembled dying ashes.

Belle’s normally healthy rosy glow that Sister Alice had told him was caused by her pregnancy was now completely gone, and the delicate skin of her brow was pulled taut across the bone in her disturbed sleep, her expression pained, horrified, and hurt.

A sure result of a hidden nightmare he could not see. Her breaths caught in her throat, hitching in uneven, watery intervals, sending hard, wracking sobs across her slender frame.

A word found its way into the cold air, pleading. His name.

“Quasi, no,” Belle groaned, her eyes still squeezed shut. Her breaths quickened but did not deepen or become shallow.

“Don’t go.” She begged some unforeseen tormentor, though Quasi had a feeling she was referring to Judge Frollo. “Please don’t leave me,” she whimpered in a pitiful little mewl.

For a moment, Quasi grew hopeful, but then his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Belle wasn’t waking up. She was delirious. It seemed that her mind’s eye was giving her visions of the very man who had almost destroyed both of their lives two days ago. He couldn’t prove it, but he was sure she dreamed of both the Prince who’d almost gotten away with assaulting her downstairs in their very own cathedral’s library and then again of his own master, may God bless Claude Frollo’s soul _not_.

Then she spoke again, her voice weakening with every word uttered. “Love? Quasi? Where…where are you?” Belle pleaded. For a fraction of a second, her eyes flung open in shock. She peered at him through the haze of fog in her eyes.

“Don’t _leave_ me,” she begged urgently, blinking back tears.

Part of Quasi wanted to soar that she was awake, and he was sure that he _would_ have if he weren’t feeling so afraid for his lovely wife. It was _his_ wretched name that Belle called for in her deepest moment of need. The Prince and the Judge were the furthest men from her mind as they could possibly be.

All Quasi wanted was to ease Belle’s fear in some way, but how, he had no clue how to reach her in her state of barely semi-consciousness.

He lacked the ability to understand for a moment why Belle would, even in her most fevered nightmare, ever doubt that he would remain by her side. His gaze lingered on her troubled face, and then he realized with a horrible stabbing pricking at his heartstrings that everyone she’d ever loved had left her. Maurice, cruelly murdered by her husband in front of her eyes, her mother, long dead, or so her father had said, then.

All dead, leaving her alone with no one else for company. Quasi grew sick as worry wormed its way into the pit of his stomach, thinking about how lonely Belle must have been.

The fool to whom she had been married before had abused her, not treated her with the love and respect she wholeheartedly deserved. Had gotten her pregnant with a baby that he still wasn’t entirely sure that Belle wanted, though she _said_ that she did, at least when he had asked, that there was no reason for the babe to grow up knowing Gaston was the father.

Still. The doubt that tugged at his mind, taunted him, sending his mind very nearly insane with worry and doubt.

The pit in Quasi’s stomach filled with a wave of horrible, seething anger, hotter than any wildfire could ever flame as his mind dwelled on the bastard that he had killed in self-defense. For _her_. He had _killed_. Twice now. For Belle. To protect her, and he would do it again in a heartbeat, he decided, his eternal soul be damned. A monster like him was already damned, he figured, so there was no point in worrying what happened to him afterward.

The fact that Belle only had him left and a baby that was sure to remind of the man who had horribly mistreated her throughout their marriage had left him with a fit of horrible anger.

He blamed Gaston Dupont, that soldier, that bastard, for the fear and uncertainty that even still plagued Belle’s dreams and made it impossible for his wife to rest in the security of the love that he knew he felt for her when she needed him most.

Quasi swore he was not about to leave Belle’s side. He would prove to her, somehow, that his love was all she needed.

He could only hope that his wife would learn to accept it.

“Belle. I…I’m here,” he managed, choking back salty, briny liquid that he was sure would slip from his lids at any given moment. He choked back his tears and swallowed down past a lump in his throat. “I’m not going to leave you, love. I’m right here where I’m sitting. I’m not anywhere else, sweetheart.”

His shaking gloved fingers reached out to caress her cheekbones, but the affectionate gesture only worsened his despair. Her cheeks were taking on an awful greyish tinge.

Her skin was hot to the touch. She looked like Death.

“ _Madellaine_!” he bellowed urgently, his blue eyes wide with worry, flinching at how loud his desperate plea reverberated through the walls of the tower, but he knew she would hear it.

The petite little blonde thief of Clopin’s had taken an immense liking to explore both of his bell towers, marveling at the intimacy and the simplistic beauty, the lengths he’d painstakingly undergone to make the place feel warm. At home. Madellaine, who’d been in the middle of examining some of the bell ringer’s more intricate carvings, namely the figurines of the baker and the blacksmith, appeared through the curtain of his and Belle’s sleeping nook almost instantly, disheveled.

Quasi was almost amused to see Father Darius following close behind at the blonde’s heels and would have snorted if his wife’s circumstances weren’t so dire. Quasi turned urgently to face the priest and the thief, before turning back to Belle again.

“She’s burning up!” he shouted frantically, feeling a surge of adrenaline coupled with the panic coursing through his icy blood.

Madellaine’s already pale features went almost pallid as she bolted forward on the balls of her heels and rushed to the opposite side of the makeshift bed. She felt Belle’s arms and her forehead, cringing at the droplets of sweat along her browbone.

Quasimodo was right. Belle was indeed running a very high fever. Madellaine wasted no time in pulling back the thick woolen blanket and gingerly lifted the young woman’s shift to examine the bandages she had dressed her in after the surgery.

Madellaine inspected the laceration carefully, her pretty face growing grim as she flipped through a bound brown leather book, seemingly a book she carried with her of various herbs and medicinal remedies. “The wound where she was stabbed is infected,” she announced, her voice carrying through Quasi and Belle’s sleeping nook like a soft wind that sent a chill of dread down both the bell ringer and the priest’s spines collectively.

Madellaine’s forehead briefly wrinkled as she squinted against the dim light. She peeked at Belle’s ribcage. The incision where Judge Frollo’s blade had cut into her flesh was definitely beginning to fester. Yellow and green-looking pus glistened sickly around the point of entry, to say nothing of the stench.

A long band of thin red radiated outwards from her stitches and painted the skin, all the way down to Belle’s waist.

Madellaine rose to her feet with urgency after examining the bell ringer’s wife, lowering the material of her thin night shift, but pulled the woolen blanket from the bed, leaving her arms and legs exposed to the cold frigid winter air in the loft.

Motioning with a curt, impatient wave of her arm to Father Darius, she addressed Quasi. “We’re going to need to treat the infection, but we have to get her fever down first and foremost,” she told Belle’s husband as the priest came forth.

She turned towards Darius, not noticing the handsome priest’s draining of color, and turning green as he tried not to look at the festering wound commanding all of their attention.

“If you could fetch some sheets, and buckets of cold water with ice, please, Father, that would go a long way. She’s hot to the touch,” Madellaine ordered the clergyman, who nodded and darted out of Quasi’s sleeping nook to comply, grateful, she thought, though she couldn’t prove it, to be away from the smell and the sight of the horrible looking wound within Belle’s side.

Madellaine turned towards the bell ringer and shot the distraught man a sympathetic smile. “I h—have to go and mix the remedies,” she said, reaching out a hand, her slender fingers curling over Quasi’s bicep. “I’ll be right back,” she murmured, almost the exact moment Darius returned with the supplies the young blonde thief had asked of the priest to bring. Quasi could only numbly stare, his thoughts overwhelmed with thoughts of Belle. Madellaine stole a distressed glance at Darius as she shook her head to herself and disappeared out of the nook again, her soft footfalls slowly fading as she left to do whatever it was that she needed to do to help bring down poor Belle’s raging fever.

Darius bit the wall of his cheek as he regarded their bell ringer with a worried frown as his dark brows knitted together. He had never seen the poor boy look so… _weak_. So frightened beyond belief, not even all those times when Frollo came up to the tower. Those times paled in comparison to this.

His stare trailed down to Belle’s frail, grey form laying on their marriage bed. He could scarcely believe it was really her. Belle was a strong woman, fierce, noble, heartfelt, now she seemed so vulnerable and broken, with nothing left to give at all. His mind wandered back to thoughts of what the Archdeacon had said, during the first few weeks of Belle’s arrival following her claim to the sanctuary within the stone walls.

How she and the boy were destined to be together, of that the Archdeacon, and even the Bishop, had been certain of this.

Surely, one of the heads of the church could not have been wrong. Darius could not understand why this was happening, it could not be happening to a sweeter woman, and he prayed God would be merciful if God even _listened_ to him anymore.

The priest blinked, forcing his attention to return back to Belle’s husband, as Quasi sank back down onto the chair by their bedside, lost in the throes and depths of his own misery.

He clung tight to Belle’s hand, trying to give her a lifeline, wanting nothing more than to be brave for his pregnant wife, but it felt as though his own little world around him was crumbling as her life seemed to be slipping away, and it was then that he damned Claude Frollo to Hell.

He hoped his soul _suffered_ for what he had done to Belle, what he had _taken_ from him. Quasi felt like he’d always managed to be strong. But now, he felt anything but. In an almost heartbreaking display of desperation, almost so much that Darius had to look away, not sure he could bear to watch, yet knowing he’d curse himself forever if he didn’t, the priest watched in silence as Quasi brought his face to Belle’s and kissed her dried, motionless lips.

Bringing his head to rest next to hers, now it was his turn to beg. “Belle,” he whispered, pleading to his wife in a hoarse, cracked whisper so faint, his words were almost as the wind. “ _Please_. Please don’t leave me, sweetheart. You can fight this.”

His request sounded almost like a whispered prayer. It was only minutes before Madellaine returned, clutching a tiny wooden bowl of some sort of poultice that smelled awful, and a bottle of red wine that she’d nicked from God only knew where.

But for Quasimodo, it felt an eternity. Sister Alice trailed close behind her and brought alone two pails of water and an armful of fresh linens that were surely going to come in handy.

Madellaine quickly dunked the sheets into the buckets of frigid water a few of the nuns had helped her collect from the well outside and began laying them as gently as she could over Belle’s burning, fevered, and ravaged body. Darius carried a wooden bowl, a small knife, and several clean clothes, looking like he was going to be horribly sick at what Madellaine was going to have to do, though he set the basin down beside the bed and stepped back, giving the young blonde space to work.

Belle’s friend, who, after this, Quasi was certain his wife would very much consider the young woman who’d saved her life a friend to her, took the knife and began to cut open the side of her nightshift with the knife with swift, expert movements.

Wiping the knife clean on a cloth, she began carefully cutting and scraping away the rancid parts of the wound on her ribcage. Even in her fevered and unconscious state, Belle’s body began violently reacting to the pain, convulsing, and writhing in her sleep. Belle inhaled sharply and let out an agonized moan.

“You’re hurting her!” Quasi screamed and lunged forward, trying to stop Madellaine from cutting away any more of Belle’s infected and diseased skin, only to be restrained by Darius.

The priest, though just as tall as the church’s bell ringer at around 6’2, wasn’t quite as strong as Quasi, and struggled to hold him back, grunting and gritting his teeth with the effort as he wound both his arms around Quasi’s broad middle and squeezed, trying with all his might to keep him reaching Belle.

Madellaine pulled away, recoiling in fear, though her lips parted open slightly in shock. However, she was quick to compose her face into a mask of perfect professional calmness.

“I—I _understand_ that you care for your wife, monsieur, but I _have_ to clear away as much of the infection as I’m able, or else it’s sure to _poison_ her entire body if we don’t get it out,” she stated calmly, hoping to make Quasimodo understand why.

Darius nodded his agreement and did his best to restrain Belle’s husband, yanking him back by the shoulder and flinching as he swore he heard a muscle in the younger man’s arm crack.

“Let Madellaine _work_!” he demanded, almost sounding angry with Quasi. “ _Please_ ,” he continued, lowering his voice, and trying a softer approach, though his own temper threatened to surge towards the surface as his own worry for Belle wormed its way into his stomach, causing a coil in his gut to twist. “She _knows_ what she’s doing. She’s taken care of Belle thus far, yes?”

Pacified only slightly by his friend’s angry insistence, Quasi gave in, shooting the young blonde an apologetic look for having frightened her momentarily, and let the girl finish her work, although he watched the blonde thief around his wife like a hawk. Madellaine nodded, retrieving the bowl, and laid it on a small wooden table next to their bed. She began to use the pads of her own fingers to scoop out clumps of whatever thick, dark, foul-smelling paste compiled of however many herbs she had thought to grind, painting it over poor Belle’s festering wound.

Her fingertips became stained crimson with Belle’s blood, though when Madellaine was satisfied enough with her handiwork, she dressed the infected area with a cleaning cloth.

The fabric was held together in a place by the paste-like concoction atop her skin that smelled truly foul and rancid.

When she finished with that, the blonde pulled the cold, damp sheet over the top of Belle’s chest and wetted a few of the other linen sheets. She wrung them out over the buckets of ice water and folded them as carefully as she could, gingerly placing one behind Belle’s neck and the other one overtop of her brow.

Poor Belle began to shiver violently, her teeth chattering in her sleep as the frigid cold icy water from the sopping bed covers penetrated her scorching skin that could have rivaled that of the sun’s own rays. If they couldn’t bring her fever down, there was every possibility that the fever alone would kill Belle.

The icy drops of water that ran down the length of the bedsheets and steadily puddled onto the hardwood floor were warm by the time they hit the floor, and even through all of that, Quasi never let go of Belle’s hand. If anything, his grip _tightened_.

_Hard_. Clinging to her hand as though it were a lifeline. And once more, the agonizing waiting and the burden of not knowing cycled through the tormented young bell ringer’s mind.

Frustrated, Quasi removed unstirred and still in his chair, growing stubble along his jawline from not bothering to shave, his unkempt wild ginger hair falling in front of both his eyes.

He decided he didn’t give a damn. His only concern right now was ensuring Belle pulled through from her feverish state. Darius watched in concern as his friend deteriorated as the long hours of the night dragged on until the moon came out.

He feared what Quasi would do to himself if the worst should come to pass. Darius begged him to eat something, even just a bit, reminding him he would do his wife no good at all if he passed out sick from hunger and not taking care of himself.

Quasi relented and tried a few bites of the stew that Sister Alice had brought for him, and a bowl for Belle too, if she happened to be hungry when he woke, but he could barely keep it back down before it manifested as bitter bile in his throat.

Madellaine, God bless her, continued to see to Belle’s care. The young woman cleaned and re-dressed her wound with fresh politics nearly every hour on the dot-like clockwork. She personally took over-soaking the linens in ice-cold water, laying them over Belle’s frail, still shivering form, now clad in her shift.

Her body temperature was still hot and dangerously high, and the fact that Quasi’s wife had not yet regained consciousness was troubling for Madellaine, but Belle continued to fight for her life, her teeth incessantly chattering from cold.

It was well past midnight, and much to everyone’s chagrin, a cold wind blew in from the east, promising a thunderstorm that had the potential to turn into a deadly blizzard if cold enough. Madellaine expressed a desire to leave, to which both Sister Alice and Father Darius almost violently protested, insisting that she stay in one of the spare cloister cells below.

They needed her here in case Belle should waken again. Darius sat on the floor leaning against the wall opposite the bell ringer and his wife’s little sleeping nook. Quasi hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d sworn he wouldn’t rest until his beloved wife was relatively safe and out of danger. As he’d sat perched in his chair, he pictured Belle restored to the perfect picture of health.

He’d found the vision so soothing, so comforting to his frazzled mind, that he’d drifted off at the peace now wallowing in his soul as visions of his wife and in another several months, their child flitted through his mind. He tried to imagine what their babe would look like. He hoped it would look like Belle.

He could see Belle, tall and strong, the very picture of a brave, courageous woman, especially after all the hardships that she had endured. He could almost sense her loving arms around him, taste her sweet kiss, feeling her slender fingers trail their way through his thick tuft of fiery red hair in the way he liked.

As he hunched there, lost in the shadows of his dreams, Quasi realized with a start that he’d roused himself from sleep. Quasi swore he felt the ghost of the touch of Belle’s hand on his skin. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the phantom sensation before it promptly disappeared as his vision adjusted.

Then, he realized… the feeling wasn’t leaving him at all. He felt his breaths catch in his throat, praying he wasn’t imagining the sensation, hoping to God that this was really real.

He froze. Belle’s fingers were sifting through his hair, entangling themselves in his ginger locks. Quasi slowly raised his head and her hand fell upon his cheek. Quick to react, he caught her fingers and held them up to his lips as he turned his gaze up to look his wife in the eyes. Belle’s heavily-lidded dark umber eyes were open, and his wife was watching him lovingly, silent.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward in the sweetest smile Quasi thought he had ever seen. His heart felt like it leaped up into his throat with joy. He rose himself to Belle’s face, kissing her softly. He almost was afraid to touch his wife as his gloved hands nervously shifted from her fingers to her waist, and finally, lingered near her face, not wanting to harm her.

He could not stem back the fight of the tears of relief that dripped from his lids and down his ashen cheeks. “You’re _awake_ ,” he whispered, overcome with horrible, aching happiness that physically hurt his chest as it constricted. “I—I’ve been waiting for you, Belle,” Quasi smiled, lips trembling.

“Where…am I? What…happened?” Belle’s voice was barely audible from days of not speaking to anyone at all while in the captivity of that vicious Prince, who, she secretly hoped, and prayed for forgiveness to God for thinking such an ugly thought, that he was suffering for what he had tried to do.

That an old fairy crone or a witch would…curse him, turn him into the monster she knew was reflected both outwardly and within. She could only pray for that to happen to the man.

Belle shoved aside thoughts of the providence’s prince for now and forced herself to try to focus her gaze on Quasimodo. Though it was admittedly difficult. Everything was hazy.

“ _Hurts_ ,” she croaked out weakly, only then becoming aware of a blinding, white-hot flaring pain in her right ribcage. It had her seeing nothing but white behind her lids as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat was so dry and parched that it was a chore just for Belle to force out that one single word.

“Shh,” he soothed in as gentle and calm a voice as he could manage, though his tenor-like tones still shook as he did. Quasi was anxious to keep fear and uncertainty from Belle’s mind if he could provide that for her. “Frollo…hurt you,” he told her as calmly as he could manage, though he swore he felt a spike in his blood pressure increase as he spat his old master’s surname as though it were poison upon his tongue. “He’s dead, love. He won’t be bothering you anymore.” He flinched as he heard Belle’s tiny, barely audible gasp of surprise, though quickly continued, not wanting to linger on thoughts of his father anymore. “The wound became infected, and you’ve had a very high fever.”

As if to emphasize his point, he tenderly caressed her now cool but still quite clammy forehead and stroked her sweaty hair. “But you’re going to be just _fine_ , sweetheart, I—I promise. I’m going to look after you,” he told her, his voice still shaking, trying to convince himself as much at the moment as his ill wife.

Darius, meanwhile, just outside the tower, still slumped against the wall with his arms folded across his slender chest, shrinking as much as he could into his too-big habit for warmth, awoke to the sound of Belle’s quiet, reserved voice.

He’d heard Quasi speak to Belle in her sleep several times over the last couple of hours and was about to offer to take over for Quasi to insist the man get what little rest he could manage when his eyes widened at the sight of Belle’s hand moving up Quasi’s strong arm, and he saw the young brunette woman blink slowly.

Darius’s grogginess instantly disappeared as he jumped up urgently, barely believing his own eyes, thinking that God truly worked in mysterious ways. “Madellaine!” he shouted, eager for good news, not flinching as his loud voice startled a flock of pigeons nearby that had been nesting in a rafter above him.

The young mademoiselle came quickly, almost barreling over Darius, letting out a stumbled squeak of surprise, either oblivious to or ignoring his own flustered look, red in the cheeks, as she ducked underneath the tall father’s arm and stopped short when she saw Belle awake the moment she yanked the curtain aside. A hopeful smile found her face.

Madellaine exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose, reaching up a hand to tuck a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, cringing as the painful memory of Clopin hacking it off in a rage one day when he’d caught her stealing from him flitted through the forefront of her mind. Her hair had been beautiful.

Just like Maria’s. Long, cascading in luscious thick ringlets to just past her shoulders, though not anymore. She let out a sigh and shook her head. _It’s just hair_ , she thought darkly to herself. _And hair grows back_. She blinked and refocused her attention on Belle as tension met her in the room, the young woman now propped up against a pile of stiff-looking pillows.

“You had us worried, young mademoiselle. I have to say, this is a welcome sight, for a while, I thought you wouldn’t make it through,” Madellaine murmured quietly, stepping to Belle’s side, and outstretching her hands, though she hesitated, biting down on her bottom lip. “Milady, if I may please examine your wound?” she asked in what she hoped was a soothing tone.

Belle, though she was still looking quite confused, quickly nodded, and she heard Quasi hitch in a sharp breath as he held it, hoping that his wife would be figuratively out of the woods.

Madellaine gingerly pulled back the cold damp sheet and lifted the edge of Belle’s shift to reveal the poultice she’d applied. She gently peeled back the linen bandages and studied her stab wound. Her fingers gently pressed the edges of her wound, stiffening only as she heard Belle let out a pained hiss.

No colored discharge was oozing from the incision as it had been before, which was a good sign. Madellaine nodded.

Gently laying her hand across Belle’s forehead, the young woman considered her temperature pensively before taking Belle’s slender wrist in her own and felt her pulse give a beat.

Letting go of her hand gently at her waistline, Madellaine de Barreau’s smile grew even wider. “Your fever is gone, Belle,” she happily reported. “The wound appears to be healing well,” she relayed to the men as she turned at the waist to look at them. She regarded Quasi and Darius with a sense of relief. “She will need time to recover, a few weeks at best, but I would go so far as to hazard a guess as to say that your wife is through the worst of it, monsieur,” she murmured, inclining her head a little.

Behind her, Darius beamed at the happy news, with Madellaine completely ignorant at the slight smile of relief the priest was directing her way, before she ducked out of the room, much to the priest’s growing annoyance and anger at quickly dismissing herself, and made to follow her, though not before casting one last look over his shoulder at his friend and his wife.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though his curiosity was screaming at him to follow the thief, to see she was given suitable accommodations and proper quarters for the night. It was, Darius decided, the least that he could do for the young mademoiselle that had saved their bell ringer’s wife’s life.

Though truth be told, he wanted to talk to her. He could sense something amiss with the young woman during her time here, as though she felt uncomfortable in this House of God.

And there was another part of him that wanted simply to be around the blonde. He could not explain it, the longer he lingered in her presence, the more he felt a strange sense of peace wallowing in his soul. He shook his head to himself and turned on his heels to follow after the Barreau girl before he could change his mind, not bothering to look back behind him.

Belle was in good hands. With a tiny smile, Darius nodded to himself and quietly slipped out of the north bell tower, following after Madellaine, who remained unaware he followed.

Unbeknownst to the unbelievable torment and conflict that was waging war within his friend and clergyman’s mind right now, Quasi knelt once again beside Belle, this time, a surge of fresh energy coursing through his veins, despite his tiredness.

As gently as he could, not wanting to further disturb her injury, Quasi gathered Belle in his strong arms and pressed his face to hers and kissed his wife with the hours of longing that had been denied him while his pregnant wife fought for her life.

She met his lips with equal passion, her heart relieved that he’d come through his confrontation with Frollo unscathed.

Belle would never dare admit this out loud to her husband lest it provoked the man’s temper and led to a squabble between them, but she was glad that it was she who’d been injured and not him. She wasn’t sure she could have survived watching him hurt. Though before she could ponder over this thought further, the two of them reluctantly broke apart, gasping for much-needed air. Quasi gently rested his wife back against her pillows, his face hovering over his, blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“God’s finally listened to me, love, after all this time, and answered my prayer,” he confessed as he smiled at Belle as she quickly fell asleep, her body taxed from the ordeal it had undergone. He followed soon behind as he clambered up onto the bed and nestled his head in the crook of her shoulder on the side of her body that was uninjured. 

He was certain that he was the luckiest man alive, though unbeknownst to the two of them, there were still forces who wished to tear them apart.


	47. What Are You Waiting For

**CHAPTER FORTY-SIX**

Madellaine walked slowly and purposefully through the desolate empty halls of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, marveling at the simplistic beauty of the place as her delicate footsteps echoed off the black and white checkered tile. She marveled at how relatively quickly the parts of the cathedral had been able to be repaired after Judge Frollo’s attempted siege.

Almost a year ago now. A year since Frollo had lost his mind, and now the man had paid for his sins with his own life.

She was just grateful she had been able to help pull the young woman upstairs out of her fever and treat her wounds.

Though her chest swelled with anger at the thought of what the Judge had attempted to _take_ from that poor man, her fists balling at her sides tightly against her swelling rancor, her chest heaving for calm as she slowly and steadily walked, unaware that one of the cathedral’s priests was following the young woman’s every movement that she made, hiding in the shadows, not quite stalking her like a panther stalking its prey, but enough to remain suspicious, at least until the moment she turned around.

Each candle lined the long aisle, Madellaine’s breaths catching in her throat at the immaculateness of the church. The lights from the tiny fires draped over her petite form in such a way that she had a difficult time not staring at the shadows dancing along the massive walls. The girl took a small, cautious step forward, clutching at her middle for warmth.

“Well, I guess they don’t call this the House of God for nothing, Barreau,” she grumbled to herself, tucking a wisp of her short, shaggy blonde hair steadily growing back after Clopin had cut it off in one of his fits back behind her ear where it rightfully belonged. In the warm candlelight, her pale skin held a sort of amber, sun-kissed look. Her hands balled into fists as she walked slowly forward, her book of maladies and remedies tucked underneath her armpit, careful not to drop the thing.

Everything around her was absolutely breathtaking. The windowpanes held a slight white glow to them, courtesy of the full moon outside. She asked herself why, before her and Maria’s fallout, she’d never come here once before. She was a _stupid_ girl at times. A stupid, _stupid_ girl with _stupid_ dreams who _never_ learned.

The awed young woman had never really been the religious type, though she was loathed to admit it, Maria had. The thought of her sister stirred a bittersweet feeling in the pit of her stomach. How horribly they’d fought the last time she’d saw her older sibling, and the row had ended with Maria’s hands around her neck, and her older sister likely would have killed her too, strangled her to death had it not been for the kindness of a passing man, the local miller, who had managed to separate the girls.

That had been the last time she had seen Maria, and Madellaine could not help but feel bitterly cheated, deprived of her one chance to manage to sneak into the castle to see her again. To try to talk some semblance of sense into her until it was too bloody late. What a _witch_ her sister was becoming, thanks to that _bastard_ of a stupid, arrogant Prince that had corrupted her, turned everything that had been good within her sister poisonous, until all that remained of Maria was a shell.

A burning pressure began to build behind her shining blue eyes. She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, not realizing she’d made it to the end of the long aisle.

She stood before the altar of the nave in complete awe, the stinging pressure behind her eyes not forgotten but subsiding. The white pristine marble statue of the Virgin Mary sat still in the flaring light from the candles as the baby Jesus laid nestled to her breast peacefully. Each angel that surrounded the immortal mother looked perfect, their marble skin held no blemish. She almost forgot they were merely statues created by men.

Though Madellaine was pulled from her thoughts the moment a loud, clanging deep vibration suddenly surged through the ground at her feet as the sound of something heavy falling on the ground reached her horribly ringing eardrums. Whatever it was that had fallen, the sound of said object’s fell held a high-pitched, clattered twang that echoed throughout.

Madellaine whirled around on the heels of her brown leather boots, a hand over her racing heart, clutching at a fistful of her dress, momentarily forgetting her palms were still stained crimson with Belle’s blood from earlier, though dried by now.

A tiny gasp escaped her lips as they parted open in shock. The abrupt noise whirled her out of her dazed thoughts regarding her sister. Down the aisle was a fallen candlestick, wax spilling onto the black and white checkered floor. She furrowed her brows. She supposed she ought to have been worried about the aisle’s carpet catching on fire, though from what her wide, almond-shaped eyes could make out, the flames from the fallen candelabra had been put out, almost…stomped out, if judging by the way the aisle carpet crinkled at the edges was any indication. It was most likely from the fall or whoever had knocked it aside or whatever had managed to extinguish it.

The frazzled reluctant thief was not too concerned with the candelabra at the moment, though her heart pounded in her chest. Who had made the candle fall? Was she being stalked? She knitted her thin eyebrows together in a frown. In the far corner of the massive nave, she could see a tall, slender silhouette shifting oddly and awkwardly in the near distance.

The figure hadn’t been too far away from the candle.

 _Ok, Lena_ , she told herself as she blew out a nervous to steady herself as she approached. _Don’t panic. Everything’s fine_.

* * *

Everything was most certainly **NOT** fine. _Embarrassing_ is what this was.

A nearly thirty-two-year-old man hovering in the nave because he was concerned for the young, twenty-seven-year-old woman’s safety. How in the seven hells she had reached this age and had not yet married or entered into a courtship with a young Parisian man, he did not know, nor could the troubled priest ascertain why just the thought of seeing the young woman with some faceless, nameless man bothered him so badly, but it _did_.

It caused an abrupt bitterness to settle into the pit of his stomach, though he quickly forced himself to think of something else. He had no real logical reason to follow Madellaine de Barreau down here when she had fled from Quasi’s tower, of course, though with the very real likelihood that the Prince of these lands was sure to attempt to find Belle again, and now perhaps this young mademoiselle too, Darius felt the urge to protect her.

That left only _her_ , this young woman unguarded, as he felt quite confident Quasi would protect Belle with his life if need be, and any man foolish to get within fifty feet of the brunette woman upstairs while she was recovering would find their necks snapped in an instant before they could even blink an eyelid. He hated thinking the young mademoiselle couldn’t take care of herself.

From what little snippets she’d learned of her, she was a thief in Clopin Trouillefou’s camps, and a good one. Darius could see _why_. One bat of those long eyelashes of hers and a simple white smile was enough. Her face alone was more than capable enough to attract an entire army, and once her hair grew out, she would truly be a goddess of light and warmth among men, radiating sunshine wherever she walked, and he was sure no other held such a smile. Theia. Aphrodite or Athena.

Her youthful appearance and flawless complexion deserved a constant smile, Darius thought, but instead, she merely looked frustrated as she cautiously approached the pillar behind which he’d ducked in a moment of anger at knocking over the bloody candelabra in a moment of surprise clumsiness.

Though he’d only had one brief conversation with her, that was beside the point. Before the young woman had time to turn around, the anxious man scurried behind another marble pillar before her sharp eyes like that of a hawk could land on his form. He’d not felt this nervous since…since _Hanna_ , but…

He’d rather _not_ think about it. His mind felt like it was racing. A fast hand found its way to his thick tuft of short dark hair. Darius didn’t think he could let Madellaine see him like this. Not after that. His aching back that still stung from where he’d bloody _tripped_ was pressed firmly against the white marble.

Father Darius cautiously peered over his shoulder to look behind his only source of camouflage and drew in a breath.

And there she was, the woman who’d saved Belle’s life, standing against the flaming light of the candles. Her flowing dress hit the floor, her slender shoulders slightly exposed. The girl looked like she belonged here, like Barreau herself was a work of art. Her glistening blue eyes were making a quick scan of the area in front of her. She had undoubtedly heard the crash and must have noticed him. Darius wished she hadn’t.

His skittish blue eyes flicked to the door that led up to the south tower loft, and unfortunately, Madellaine was standing right across from it.

Darius wasn’t going to be able to slip past her without her noticing. He’d been fully about to step from the shadows and announce his presence, though what he had not anticipated was tripping over the damned stupid candelabra.

He honestly did not know what had compelled him to follow the young mademoiselle like this. This made the soldier within him pace nervously. It was _not_ stalking, he tried to tell himself. Darius just…needed to make sure Barreau was safe, that was all. He told himself, yes. 

Nothing more and nothing less than that. He nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground until her soft voice reached his eardrums.

“Are you… _following_ me, monsieur? Whatever it is that you _want_ me of, why not just tell me, sir?” Her words were blunt and addressed to him. She was talking to him. To _him_! Flustered, Darius froze and tried to remember how words worked, his mind coming up blank.

“What? _Me_ …I…” His voice trailed off as he stiffened at the sound of her quiet voice floating through the air like a soft wind. He did not seem to have any other choice but to talk.

As much as the terror within him of what she must think of what a fool he’d been kept rising, no matter how many images he conjured in his mind of soon telling Belle the _truth_ as soon as she was well enough and, on the mend, it did not seem right to ask of her something that Belle could not give him.

He simply could not see her in that light, and now this cute little blonde had quite literally stumbled into his life and…and… Darius’s burning blue eyes glistened as they widened as he realized what it was he was doing to himself. He gritted his teeth, stifling a growl of frustration as he shook his head wildly.

Oh, Good Lord Above, help him, could this day get _any_ worse? His nostrils flaring, with a very, very, very deep breath, the priest slowly slipped away from the relative safety of the pillar and out into the open space of the nave with nowhere to hide from the blonde who had caught onto his following her.

As Darius hesitantly slid away from the pillar, Madellaine de Barreau’s bright blue eyes caught his swift, languid motion and before he could fathom it, bolted on the heels of his boots, not bothering to look behind him, though he quickly decided that fleeing was in his best option here.

He bolted… face first, into the side of another marble pillar. A moment later, he found himself staring up at the ceiling of the nave, the prettiest woman in the world hovering over him, thin eyebrows knitted together, looking like she didn’t know whether or not to laugh at him.

“I see you’ve…met the wall,” The young woman said, grinning. She knelt down beside Darius, who flinched away from her. She pointed to a tiny scar on the left side of her forehead. It was barely visible and had the young mademoiselle not pointed it out, Darius might not have ever seen it.

“We all hit walls in our life. See that? Cracked my head open when I was ten. I was so excited that the Prince and his consort were coming to Paris that I ran through the streets of the marketplace…and into the side of the baker’s shop. Woke up back at home ten hours later,” she joked.

Darius flinched, grimacing at the thought, prompting him to ask out loud in a dazed sort of confusion. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“What, several years later?” she asked with a light chuckle. “Yeah, I think I’ll live. I’m here now aren’t I?” she joked and laughed. He smiled at the sound of her laughter, which Darius thought was the loveliest sound in all the universe as she extended a hand and helped him up without waiting to be prompted.

Oh, Good Lord Above, help him, could this day get _any_ worse?

His nostrils flaring, with a very, very, very deep breath, the priest slowly slipped away from the relative safety of the pillar and out into the open space of the nave with nowhere to hide from the blonde who had caught onto his following her. As Darius hesitantly slid away from the pillar, Madellaine de Barreau’s bright blue eyes caught his swift, languid motion and her eyes wandered towards the fallen candelabra.

“Oh. It must have been _you_ who made the noise,” she snorted, rolling her eyes, though she looked relieved ultimately at knowing who had caused the startling sound as she spoke.

Her hands had fallen from her chest and instead rested in between her legs that, unbeknownst to her, had set the inner beast within his mind growling and snarling, almost purring in pleasure as he fought against the urge. Darius still thankfully remained shrouded by the shadows. Madellaine didn’t seem to know that it was him, and he hoped to keep it that way for a moment or two longer until he managed to get under control.

“Y-yes. I’m sorry, I can be uh, clumsy a—at times…” the anxious handsome priest wrang his hands together in a fit, thankful he was hidden in darkness so she wouldn’t see just how utterly flabbergasted he was becoming and cursing himself.

Why? Why had he gotten it into his mind to think this was a good idea? Was he really that pathetic? He wished he could tell himself. He gritted his teeth in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut. Madellaine’s eyes widened slightly at the sound of his voice.

Oh, that was the priest all right. She’d recognize it anywhere. The man in front of her was taller than her by several feet, the faint silhouette of his overly long monk’s habit swaying slightly in the faint breeze that drifted through the empty nave.

She almost rolled her eyes to herself, wondering if that was the cause of why Darius Barret had tripped over the candelabra.

“I could mend them for you. Your—your habits, monsieur. They should be darned and taken up, otherwise, well…more accidents like that one, yes?” she challenged, quirking a brow in the shadow’s direction, a slight teasing lilt to her French accent that made Darius smile nervously, though as he was still hidden in the darkness, Madellaine did not see it.

“I…thank you for the kind offer, mademoiselle, you are too kind,” came his voice again as with a hesitant step forward, his foot slipped into the light, and soon, the rest of the handsome priest followed as the shadows fell away like water over rocks. And there Darius Barret stood in all his splendor.

His broad shoulders rose high, his gaze fixated on the floor beneath his boots. Madellaine realized she’d been staring at him.

God, but she was being rude. She was the last person to talk about manners, but she had not meant to make the man feel uncomfortable or exhausted in any way by calling him out like that. She sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, stifling a yawn. She was utterly exhausted.

Dead on her feet, after the night all of them had, and she wondered how it was the man in front of her could stand upright without fainting.

Regardless, she knew she could not afford to be rude.

Not when the father had gone out of her way to help her tonight, doing what he could, fetching spare supplies, blankets, bowls, utensils, whatever it was that she’d needed to tend to Belle, he had stayed by her side faithfully, and for that, she did not know how to begin to thank you.

“Are you not tired? You look just as tired as I do,” she asked, wracking her brain as she struggled to think of something to say. Madellaine allowed a ghost of a smile to rest on her fair features, as she could tell her question had caught the man off-guard. “Though it’s nice to meet you officially, Darius Barret.”

He flicked his eyes up to meet hers, startling and very nearly jumping out of his skin at the way his name sounded on her lips, and the sight standing affront him was rather relaxing.

The young blonde belle was framed by the candles warmly. Her friendly white smile and calming bright blue eyes somehow managed to calm down what nerves were within him prior to this little mishap. Darius searched Madellaine’s face for any sign of fear or hesitation, but he found none at the fact that he had yes, he could not admit it to himself, more or less _stalked_ her.

Darius cringed, biting down on his bottom lip as a pang of horrible, crushing guilt threatened to consume him as the young woman shot him a rather quizzical-looking stare as he in kind returned her look with a furtive, guilty, apologetic pained glare.

Breathing slowly, forcing himself to sound calm, though truth be told, he felt anything but, he somehow managed to summon the nerve to ask the mademoiselle the one question that burned on the tip of his tongue, just begging to be asked.

“You know my name.” His words were breathy as they left his lips. It was not a question, coming from the former German soldier, now-turned priest. “How is that?” He couldn’t be sure, but he swore he felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach as Madellaine de Barreau shot him an indignant look, a rueful, admonishing sort of disbelieving stare.

“Imagine my _surprise_ one night when I heard tell of Clopin telling his now-famous tale of meeting ‘Darius the Destroyer’ in a tavern one night. Rumor _has_ it,” she began speaking slowly, starting to turn her back and walk away from him, “that he was a well-known soldier throughout all of Germany once, eventually coming to France. He was quite skilled, the stories say. He could have gone on to conquer entire continents if he were of a mind to, but one day, the story Clopin told me said that he’d had enough after killing his mentor when the two men disagreed. They fought, argued, and it ended with the younger plunging the tip of his blade into his mentor’s chest. Laid down his sword at the gates of France and walked away from his troops, never to look back towards that life again. Since you, Father, are the _only_ man in this entire city with such a first name, I can only _assume_ Clopin meant _you_ ,” Madellaine pointed out in a matter-of-fact voice. Her back was still turned towards him as he spoke. “What are you _hiding_ from, monsieur? A soldier is _always_ a soldier, no amount of you hiding under a monk’s habit will change that. You’re _hiding_ something, and you hide _from_ something.”

Still, Barreau did not turn to look at Darius. Darius opened his mouth to speak, still quite forgetting how his words worked, though the blonde didn’t give him a chance to finish as she swiveled at the waist to look at him.

He tried to speak to her, wanting to tell her the truth, but all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. The priest debated whether or not he was having a panic attack or a heart attack, given the constricting, tight feeling in his chest. Either one seemed plausible enough, given his paralyzed state of being.

“I…did what I _had_ to,” he confessed, surprised to hear himself open up to the young woman in this regard. Not even Belle knew this much of his past. His voice fell with painful regret. “It is…not something that I am proud of, milady.”

Madellaine nodded, allowing her indignation to cool before continuing. She still felt like she was reeling from everything that had happened. Letting out a sigh, she glanced down at her hands, which still bore faint traces of red from Belle’s blood.

The young woman sighed, contemplating her actions in the matter. Perhaps Barret was right. They all did things, made choices in life. Lord knew she had made her fair share of ill decisions, and the last one she had made had cost her her sister.

She could tell his voice was livid with self-blame. “If you carry your guilt with you and you let yourself feel it, monsieur, then you are already _forgiven_ ,” she sighed, exhausted, spotting a chair in the corner, near the back of the nave and sitting down.

Darius hesitated, biting at his lip before spotting another chair and pulling it up alongside her. “May I?” he asked politely.

Drawing in a cautious and apprehensive breath, Madellaine could conjure no reason in her mind to refuse the man’s request. She knew it was important to remain civil, no matter how exhausted she was when all she wanted to do was go to sleep. Without a word, Madellaine inclined her head and nodded.

“Where is she?” The young woman questioned after a moment in silence, actively averting the handsome priest’s gaze. “The young woman whom you were married to. You wear your ring, the other clasped around a pendant wound around your neck. And I see the way that you look at the bell ringer’s wife, monsieur. It pains me to say it, but Belle cannot give you what you seek. Not in the way that you hope for. She is married and expecting a child with her husband, monsieur. Let her go, and soon. I can promise you, if you don't, you would only be sending yourself further into madness...”

She glanced cautiously towards Darius out of the corner of her eye and stifled a tiny smile at his look of shock and hurt. Darius only eyed her in response. His stare was piercing, yet Madellaine could detect the hint of hurt just underneath as his stomach churned with dread. He did not confirm Barreau’s assumptions, but his sudden speechlessness did not deny them. Of course, she was correct, and he knew that she knew.

She must have seen him fidget with his wedding ring at one point or another when he thought he’d been careful to hide it. The handsome priest’s lack of response caused Madellaine to rethink her phrasing. A fiery heat crept to her cheeks as she swallowed down past the lump in her throat.

“I…forgive me, Father,” she begged, suddenly unable to meet his blue eyes. “I did not mean to cast such a horrible aspiration against your character,” Madellaine stammered, aware by this point she was babbling like a bloody fool. She really _was_ a stupid woman at times. “It was not my intent to suggest that you…that you…”

Oh, God, but could this get _any_ worse for her? Her cheeks reddened in embarrassment. The girl was mortified at her inability to find her words.

Darius remained unstirred and still. It seemed to take him an eternity to find his voice.

“Dead. Killed by a group of Frollo’s soldiers under his command, a long time ago. A few years ago, in fact. I—I thought that they were coming for me, in the middle of the night, but they came for my Hanna. I refused to obey an order I thought went against my creed, so they came for my _wife_. If I’d known that, then I never would have…” was all he answered in a hoarse croak as his voice trailed off, cracking, on the verge of breaking. He did not know quite else what to say. Darius wasn’t sure he could bring himself to speak, even if he could, though Madellaine saved him the trouble of answering as the onset of tears pricked his lids.

Silently, Darius brought the necklace he wore around his neck, brought his wife’s old wedding ring to his lips, and held it there, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if he couldn’t bear to look it.

 _Stop_ , Madellaine thought wildly and erratically. _Stop_. She bit down on her own lip to keep from bursting into tears. _Stop it now. You’re going to break my heart, Father_.

After a long moment, the handsome man composed himself, awkwardly clearing his throat. “I—I’m sorry,” he said.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Madellaine answered him forcefully. “You don’t need to apologize, Barret. It’s you that deserves an apology, for what’s been done to you throughout your life.” She leaned forward in the intensity of her feelings. “I don’t know what you’ve been through—I’m sure God Himself only knows that but I can swear to you, monsieur, all of that is behind you now.” She covered his violently trembling hand with her own small one, and almost instantly, his mad shaking ceased. “Don’t despair,” she said kindly. “It’s going to be all right, in the end.”

Darius stared down at her hand in something close to amazement. Then he swallowed down hard. “If you _say_ so.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured apologetically, and she truly did look it, a pained expression flitting across her pretty features. She stopped him with a hand on his slender shoulder. “It’s over now. Look, I get it. I admit that I don’t know much about you, Father,” she continued, unaware of his inner emotional turmoil. “I only know that…if the…the _stories_ I’ve heard of your past life are true, that your life has not exactly been _easy_ up to now.”

Darius somehow managed to hold back a bitter laugh.

 _There’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one_ , he thought.

“I—I can’t imagine the horrors you must have been through, the things you’ve seen. What’s been _done_ to you.”

Darius remained silent. He thought of the countless scars that littered his back; his reward for remaining faithful to the crown. He could still see the Judge’s face, all those years ago. Still could sometimes feel the stinging pelt of the whips, could hear Hanna’s screams in her eardrums as his wife was gutted right in front of him, pregnant with their first babe.

Oh yes. He heard _that_. He squeezed his eyes shut, though Madellaine de Barreau’s sweet, succulent, reached his ears, pulling him out of his dark tempest of memories he’d rather not.

“But…whatever’s happened, _listen_ to _me_ ,” Madellaine murmured, reaching up a hand and turning his face, forcing the disparaging priest to meet her glistening bright blue eyes. “Whatever’s happened in the past, then it’s just that. The _past_. You can let it consume you or you can move on. Start over.” She folded her arms across her chest and restlessly tapped her foot, giving Darius an expectant look. “So, what are you going to do, Father?” she challenged, her voice slightly hard.

As Darius dared to meet her eyes and return her icy cold, glacier-blue stare that left him momentarily mesmerized, he could feel his eyes well with tears as he fought them back again. He’d _die_ before he ever heard himself whimper.

“I want to start over,” he whispered, surprised to hear himself say it.

She smiled enigmatically. “Then what are you waiting for?”

If Darius thought he was groping for words earlier, it was nothing compared to right now. He simply had no words left.

With a light little chuckle, stifling back a yawn with the back of her palm, Madellaine de Barreau rose from the chair and turned her back on him, no doubt to head towards the spare cloister cell that he hoped Sister Alice had prepared for her.

“Then…if what you told me is true, you are not lying to me, Father, then...” she paused, hesitating as she thought over her words, before turning back over her shoulder to look at him. “Don’t let me down…. Darius,” she whispered, a faint smile flitting across her features, and she walked away from him, then.

Just hearing his name from her lips caused his tongue to feel thick in his mouth. Darius shook his head fervently.

 _I won’t_.


	48. This Beast is Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, writing magic is hard. Why is it so bloody hard?!? I struggled for a while between choosing Quasi's perspective and Belle's, with her injury and whatnot, or doing another Darius/Madellaine segment, since those two are really growing on me, and looking forward to exploring their potential friendship, and maybe in time, something more there, and in the end, realized it's been a bit since we checked in on bastard Prince, so I decided to start with him. I feel like I struggled with this chapter and I hope that I did it justice and this was AFTER re-writing it like 3 times before being even remotely satisfied with it, and even then, I feel like this might be one of my weaker chapters. I hope I didn't make the Prince's transformation too casual in this chapter, but I'd say he's definitely in a state of shock and doesn't really realize what the heck just happened to him until closer to the end of his segment. Anyways, for those of you who are faithfully following the story, your patience and enjoyment in the story (Hopefully you're enjoying!) propels me to keep going forward, as this story is far from over, (seriously, my original outline for this project wound up being a whooping 100 chapters, so now I'm going through the process of figuring out what can be cut, or if there are parts that could be condensed so as to not make the length so intimidating) as there is still much to be resolved before our characters can get their respective HEA's, as I do enjoy making my characters work for their Happily Ever After's. I hope that you enjoy this chapter for what it is, though you ask me, our evil Prince of this tale deserves, much much worse than what he's already gotten...

**CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN**

**Agathe** walked slowly and purposefully through the halls of the desolate East Wing some miles away, aware that something had transpired between the young mademoiselle, the precious Belle, and her husband, she could _sense_ it, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up on end, though _first_ …There was the matter of this troublesome Prince to deal with before she could even entertain the notion of paying a visit to see Belle.

But it did not stop the young woman from marveling at how empty the Prince’s castle was. Having covered the distance to the Prince’s personal quarters in short order, the witch of the Wolves’ Woods stood in the corridor, waiting for the Prince to be made aware of her presence.

“Your Highness,” Agathe greeted, careful to keep her tone calm and composed, though the truth be told, the sorceress felt anything _but_.

A hot boiling rage seared her insides hotter than any dragon of old could ever flame, though her face remained a calm mask of neutrality. She nudged open the door as casually as she could with her walking stick under the circumstances.

“What a…pleasant surprise, to find you here. I see your… _servant_ has mended your nose. It is looking _much_ better than the last time I saw you,” she murmured dryly upon finding the Prince standing affront the window of his chambers, the little blonde Barreau girl at her side, though upon catching a glimpse of Agathe standing in the threshold of the door, she crinkled her nose in disgust and parted her lips to speak, though the Prince cut her off.

“ _Leave_.” The Prince’s rough, coarse voice sounded clipped and hard as he addressed the young blonde standing by his side, and unbelievably angry. His back remained turned towards Agathe, though he knew it was her.

Agathe’s gaze flitted towards his young blonde servant, a pretty little slip of a thing, and she supposed the girl might have looked quite pretty were her face not twisted and contorted in ire.

“Milady. What a…pleasant _surprise_. I thought I made it quite _plain_ you were not to trespass here.” He turned his head languidly in her direction, smiling hospitably if somewhat overdone. The man’s smile was strained.

“Save the formalities, Your Highness, _do_ spare me the homilies, I can smell a fraud a mile away,” Agathe spat, glowering at the prince. “I came here tonight to speak with you, I shall not be denied an audience with you,” she announced, forcing her way past Maria de Barreau, whose face was mottled crimson at being asked to leave the Prince alone, and into the Prince’s quarters.

The Prince waited to speak to the cloaked beauty now standing affront him, waiting until Maria’s footsteps receded as she made her way down the East Wing, heading to the West Wing. Agathe’s cautious gaze made a quick scan of the interior of the room, almost expecting Belle to be sitting in one of the gilded chairs. She was relieved to see that, at the very least, the girl and her husband appeared to have made it safely out of the Woods.

The Prince finally turned, keeping his arms clasped behind his back, and pasted an innocent-enough looking smile on his face. “To what do I owe the honor of your…presence here?” he inquired, unnecessarily. He felt sure he knew why she was here.

“I believe you know quite well _why_ I am here,” Agathe accused hotly, as the Prince’s feigned inculpability only deepened upon his angular, Roman features. She continued, undaunted.

The Prince had rapidly become something of a disappointment to her. She huffed in frustration and lowered the hood of her cloak, tossing back a strawberry blonde curl off her face. Agathe knew she should have dealt with him a long time ago.

She sat in the Prince's quarters, a cup of hippocras in her hand as she reached across the table and accepted it from the Prince, who seemed loath to offer her refreshment, and yet, as a member of the royal family, was ever mindful of his feigned courtesies. Agathe silently looked at the Prince of twenty-two sitting in the chair across from hers. His ear was stuck through with a metal stud, its original color covered by dark red.

This so-called ‘prince’ in front of her now resembled anything _but_ courtesy and manners. Alas, though. The Prince’s eyes never lied. Though set in a wide-boned, angular face, the man’s blue eyes were cold and lifeless as he looked at Agathe.

“You forced yourself on the pretty little thing you managed to capture. You committed a crime punishable by hanging.”

The Prince glowered at the witch. “I know. I was _there_.”

Agathe set down the goblet in her hand before in her growing temper she was tempted to throw it at the young boy. Grown in body and mind, but still very much a boy. “You claimed to be a nobleman.” That made the boy pause. And it was the crux of the matter, why she had sought him out.

“I _am_ a nobleman,” Prince Adam growled through gritted teeth, meandering towards the verge of sounding shrill and irate.

“No. You _aren’t_ , Prince.” Agathe let the word hang in between them, her frustration begging for some assuagement. “Only an evil man, and a useless one at that. You are _not_ noble.”

Prince Adam gave a start at her words, as anyone would with even an ounce of sense in their minds at hearing how cold and lifeless Agathe’s voice turned as her blood went sour in her veins, curdling just as she forced herself to lay eyes on the brute.

But the man only stared back, simmering silently in his growing rancor, bristling to try to force himself to remain civil in the presence of his more or less otherwise ‘polite’ company this eve. But Agathe, ever the intuitive woman, did not miss the way the Prince’s calloused fingers closed around the chair’s arms.

Regardless, the enchantress has her suspicions, just as the Prince was undoubtedly forming his. His pale blue eyes narrowed, widening in shock and horror as to why Agathe had come, and she was inwardly pleased to see the not-noble Prince jump at her next query that she posed to him, asking after him in a casual manner.

“Where is your…former friend’s _companion_ , Your Highness?” Agathe asked in a measured, level voice. “What was the monsieur’s name? LeFou, wasn’t it?” Agathe smiled, thinking it to be an almost true smile, embellished for the young man’s benefit.

Those who crossed the enchantress’s temper quailed in their boots if Agathe smiled that little enigmatic half-smile of hers, but what few witnessed was just another calculation like any other as she wracked her brain for the appropriate punishment.

Agathe huffed in frustration. Agathe gave up trying to understand why she was different from the rest of society so long ago. She blinked, returning her attention to the golden-haired Prince still seated opposite her, who seemed to have been rendered mute. He had taken to glancing out of the East Wing’s only window, as if remembering the little incident that Agathe had witnessed with her own two eyes, how he had almost gotten away with assaulting the girl, were it not for a vent of adrenaline in the young Belle’s veins propelling her to fight back, to fight for her life, and the life of the babe growing inside of her belly even now.

The Prince missed little. Agathe could sense it. He harbored no love in his heart. Not for his servant, not for the young mademoiselle, Belle. The nobleman in front of her was a lost cause, beyond all hope of repair.

Likely he did not remember Agathe quietly slipping past the guards at the front entrance to the castle grounds, gliding in an ethereal manner as if she were little more than a phantasm, and perhaps she was, to the mortal eye who happened to bear gaze upon the young enchantress. Agathe could not hear the Prince’s poor prisoner’s screams or know what Monsieur Gaston’s former friend was thinking as the whips of the Prince’s guards scoured deeper into his flesh.

The Prince, Agathe thought sourly as she crinkled her nose in disgust as she looked across the room at the young man, had no lack of imagination for the disgusting and macabre, that much had been made clear, not once, but thrice now to the enchantress.

“The wretch in the dungeons below is mine to punish, madam!” The Prince snapped in a moment of indignation. “Not yours!” He snarled like the savage _beast_ Agathe knew him to be, the edges of his pink lips curling upwards to reveal white teeth.

“As you say,” Agathe answered, hearing the edges of her voice harden in response to the Prince’s sudden emotional display of violent aggression. Her unexpected arrival into his bedchambers has caught him off guard, she realized this, oh, yes.

Prince Adam was growing restless, though taking several deep flaring breaths through his nostrils that reminded Agathe of an angry bull seeing red, the man tried to sound less, well, _rabid_.

“Why, madame, have you ventured onto my property?”

Agathe almost snorted. “Perhaps I enjoy speaking with you, Your Highness,” she said quietly, narrowing her gaze only slightly.

Her words were met with a cocked head, and his eyebrows raised in disbelief, creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead, and shot so far up onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his golden blond hairline.

The weakness in the Prince’s mouth as his lips pursed into a rigid, unmovable line betrayed him. _Oh, you brash, arrogant fool, you think too much_.

Prince Adam was a man who would never fall from kindness. At that mental image, Agathe almost allowed a dark chuckle to escape her lips.

The Prince sensed his own vulnerability at her unexpected arrival into his chambers just enough to remain cautious and guarded of the enchantress, to bare his teeth. He considered himself a man who did not see trust as something to be given. The Prince did not see trust at all.

Or love or affection. As far as Agathe was concerned, the Prince only knew of a few people who he knew wouldn’t hurt him.

 _Does that include me_? His crimes were swaddled in no denial or defense. He did not attempt to deny that he had almost accosted Belle. And it was written quite plain on the Prince’s chiseled features that Adam trusted Agathe not to hang him.

And so, it is then that I break you of your naivety. Agathe had heard enough out of the Prince’s mouth thus far in just their brief interactions to know the monstrous man had to be dealt with. What stood to affront her now, was no Prince, no gentleman.

All that was left of him was an empty shell, a monster. And she knew just the curse. “What are you _doing_ here?” he asked.

“Cleaning you. _Teaching_ you, Prince. If either one is possible,” Agathe murmured darkly, shaking the sleeve of her long linen robe and withdrawing her wand. Fashioned from the oak of an old elm tree, her wand was truly a magnificent thing of beauty. “Your ugly deeds will taint and mar this handsome face of yours, and soon, even your pretty little hearth keep will see you as nothing more than the beast that you are.” Agathe’s face hardened. “This castle and its grounds shall also be cursed, then. Consider yourself fortunate that I am a merciful woman, and your servants shall be spared the wickedness of your own burdens. Nothing but _horrors_ will surround you, from when you look into a mirror to when you sit in your beloved precious rose gardens.”

The Prince’s face mottled and turned splotchy red with crimson. “What are you—” he started to stammer out, bolting from his chair so fast in his haste to put as much distance between himself and the Enchantress as possible as every single candlelight that had been lighted within the Prince’s chambers extinguished, each flame snuffed out, and a dark shadow fell over the bedroom.

He drew in a sharp breath as a faint blue glow began to emanate from Agathe’s form and her eyes rolled back into her head, and before he could say any more to her, he found himself pressed firmly against the wall, Agathe’s hand-wound tightly around his throat as poison ivy would creep onto a pillar.

When she spoke, her voice was a low hiss like a serpent’s. “There is no escaping your fate, Prince. All that remains of you is a _beast_ , and you shall _die_ a _beast_. I have foreseen it, Adam. Choose the right path, repent. Recant your ways, and there is still a _chance_ that your eternal soul can be saved, but if _not_ , if you continue traipsing down this path of darkness, then I am afraid that I can no longer help you and I should leave you in this castle to _rot_.”

Her words almost spent, Agathe unwound her hand from around the column of his throat and released Adam where he stood. The Prince, for his part, was utterly gobsmacked. Her face was thrust so dangerously close to his and filled with hatred.

Adam felt a surge of cold fear engulf his entire being as he felt…frightening, really frightened, perhaps for the first time in his life. “ _Do you understand_?” Agathe asked vehemently, and all the Prince could manage to muster up was, “Yes.” And then pain.

Prince Adam was a man who prided himself on pain. He knew all the nuances of pain, used it, relished it, inflicted it, grew strong from it, ruled his estate and the land around it with pain. But nothing in his experience could have prepared him for the lightning bolt that ripped through him now, from heel to head.

It was utterly crushing, shriveling, searing away his insides as his bones cracked and shifted, tearing him to pieces from the inside out. He was shaking all over, he couldn’t manage to scream. By the time he managed to rise to his feet once more, the debilitating pain of what was happening to him had sent him kneeling to the floor, and he staggered almost drunkenly to his feet, Agathe, that witch, that harlot, was nowhere to be found.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he didn’t know how he managed it, but a loud, guttural scream that did not sound like himself erupted from deep within the confines of his broad chest. He hardly felt Maria’s body thud against the wall, much less heard her horrified gasp of surprise, as the Prince’s claws wound tighter around her neck. He felt the change surging in his veins. He was not himself, and yet…he felt…more _alive_ than ever.

“Where did they _go_. I _know_ you know, Barreau. You and your little _spies_ , your other kitchen wenches know _everything_ ,” he snarled, baring his teeth, unaware that his front incisors, his canines, sharpened right before Maria’s wide blue eyes. His cold blue eyes as his transformation took effect glinted with what seemed like stress. It was one of those moods Maria used to suffer in both pleasure and pain not all that long ago. But now that…whatever magic _spell_ had been placed upon him was cursing the Prince, turning him into some form of—of _a wolf_ , Maria decided, she saw Adam in his most desperate stance and her envy only thickened.

Belle Dupont, that little _witch_ , that she-wolf, had really outdone herself.

A weak, spineless lowborn peasant girl had taken her Prince away from her when Adam used to like his women lewd and vulgar. She had transformed herself, made herself into everything that Adam could possibly want in a private consort, and now a soft dumb brunette was surely about to undo all of it!

“Where did they go?” The Prince, now more a Beast than man, though whether or not he was aware of the change, let out a low wolfish growl from deep within the confines of his chest.

His claws, which were now rapidly sprouting hair, causing him to let out another low growl, though if her Prince was panicked at the physical changes his body was undergoing, he hid it well. Maria gasped, turning her head to the side to cough, holding onto the column of her throat, hoping to catch the last warmth his fingers would likely ever leave on her skin for the last time. “She disappeared, milord, with her…the—the _wretch_.”

By the end of her sentence, the Beast-Prince’s claws had curled and a smoldering, yet cold rage was scheming in those crystalline blue eyes of his, the only human thing left of Adam. Maria almost felt victorious, to the point of laughing maniacally. She was so brilliant, she already knew his next question before the words even spouted out of his mouth.

“They _left_ together?” he growled, pacing, his hackles raised.

Maria nodded, not seeing the Beast-Prince snap and his pupils sink into tiny dots within his burning bright blue irises.

He could act as intimidating as the young blonde hearth keep knew him to be, but in the years that she’d spent growing up beside him, his vulnerability was like an open book to Maria.

Maria felt his hairy paw now crushing around her arm almost hard enough to break it. God, how she missed the fury within him, it was almost enough to cause the heat to pool between her legs, though she fought it back.

 _Not like this_ , she thought angrily, for a moment, found herself repulsed by what Adam had become. She did not know what her Prince had done to anger a fairy crone or a wise woman, perhaps, but clearly, this was the work of a gypsy curse, it had to be. What else could it be, then?

“N—Notre Dame. Where else…would they go? But…if you want to see… _her_ again, your precious little French Rose,” Maria spat, not daring to utter the _bitch’s_ name. Just the visions of the pretty brunette’s face flitting through the front of her mind sent her stomach churning and a coil in her gut twisting sickeningly, “then you’d better send a team of men on your fastest horses at full speed the moment I end this sentence,” Maria snarled angrily.

Maria looked away to hide the menacing, sick glee when the Beast-Prince snarled, pouncing across the room, trashing it.

“ _You_ can’t go,” Maria laughed, the high-pitched simpering giggle escaping her lips before she could stop herself. “Those two only set off several hours ago, and if you set one… _paw_ , outside the gates, you’ll be captured. Killed, and you’d leave us like a free snack for the _wolves_?” She asked, her innocently phrased question flitting through the East Wing’s quarters like a soft summer breeze, referring to the dozens of other vultures who would surely swoop in and attempt to lay claim to the Prince’s estate and all who worked there upon learning of their hated monarch’s death.

Her words successfully made the Beast look back. _See_ _there_. Maria’s faux sweet smile oozed confidence and seduction. _The beauty hath made the beast fickle_ , she thought, biting down hard enough on her bottom lip that Maria tasted blood.

“Let _me_ go after your precious little belle, that beauty. You… would only _frighten_ her looking…” she paused, searching for her words. “Like _this_ ,” she wildly gesticulated with her hands to his new, monstrous form, swallowing back the worst of her shock, though a small twinge of fear still lingered, and she despised this feeling. “She, however, surely would trust a friendly enough face, monsieur. _I_ will bring your princess back, B—Your Highness, unscathed to the best of my capability, sire.”

The Beast-Prince stared at her, inquisitive, fuming, and vigilant, his newly sprouted tail twitching as he considered her words. He could surely question his former lover’s motives but right now, he didn’t have much left, then, _did_ he, thanks to that witch? He was now nothing but a lost cause thanks to the witch.

“Very well,” her former Prince finally growled, just the briefest twinge of suspicion laced throughout his groveling baritone. “Take ten men with you, then. Soldiers. Servants, it matters not. And...” He paused, his sharp incisors glinting in the light. "Take the prisoner, too. I'm sure the lovely Belle will want to know what became of her...companion." The note of bitterness in the Beast-Prince's voice was unmistakable.

“Just three is more than enough, Highness, and one of the hounds.” _That’s entirely too much blood on my hands_ , a tiny part of her conscience spoke up from the dark corners of her mind.

“So be it. Don’t take too long.” Maria’s heartbeat thrummed erratically in her chest.

Heat stung at the back of her neck as she walked towards the door of the Prince’s quarters, a newfound spring in her step not there before. She was barely able to repress her excitement as she tossed her blonde curls over her shoulders. In her mind, she’d already sicced the hound on that bitch, that precious rose, only to be halted by the feeling of a claw digging into her shoulder.

She turned and met the Beast’s icy-blue stare. “You will bring her back… _won’t_ you, Barreau,” he managed in a low growl.

“Of course.” She watched his snout crinkle in suspicion, dipping her head in acknowledgment, and turned on her heels to go. As she turned to barrel her way down the grand staircase, taking them two at a time in her excitement, Maria suddenly heard an excruciatingly loud noise that forced her to a halt.

Something which could only be described as a dying animal roaring and bellowing at the top of its lungs echoed off the walls of the castle. Maria stood rooted, transfixed to the spot, the marble floor beneath her simple brown leather boots seemed to vibrate in response to something be smashed on the floor, and the ripping of what sounded like canvas or cloth. The Prince’s former lover turned to stare down the darkened corridor, just in time to see the hulking shadow of the newly-turned Beast stalk towards the West Wing, and she realized it had been her love had made the sound.

Maria sighed, toying with a blonde curl in her thumb and forefinger, and shook her head before sauntering down the steps.

She didn’t bother to tamper down the twisted, sadistic gleeful grin that erupted on her otherwise pretty face, or would have been quite pretty, were her thoughts not preoccupied with thoughts of Belle’s death. Oh, how sweet the time would be when it came, to watch the light in her eyes get snuffed out like a flame.

And Maria couldn’t wait. She would butcher the entire world if that were what her Prince asked of her, Beast or not.

If only that would but make Adam love her…

* * *

Belle awoke in the middle of the night feeling a peculiar sensation in her belly.

It almost made her stumble as she staggered out of bed, clutching at fistfuls of her lavender dressing gown, her panic rising high, constricting her chest, and taking a vice grip over her mind. Quasi, sensing his wife was not near him, bolted from his side of their bed as she swayed, her slender fingers tightening on his forearm.

What if something wrong was happening? What if she was losing their babe? Her hand tightened even further around his arm as she squeezed her eyes shut, the foreign sensation sending swells of white-hot flaring pain up and down her wound site.

Belle exhaled slowly through her mouth, focusing on just her stomach. The rest of their simple world in the bell tower had ceased to exist the moment she had woken up from…whatever this happened to be. A tiny gasp of surprise escaped her parted lips as she felt it again, a deep fluttering inside of her stomach.

Not painful. Just… _new_. And wonderful. Marvelous, even. Her mind recalled something Sister Alice had told her when she’d first learned of her pregnancy, and suddenly, Belle knew what it was. It was their baby moving. Acting quickly on instinct, she loosened her ironclad grip on Quasi’s bicep and led his hand to her belly, hoping the sensation of the baby moving would come back, hoping her husband could feel it for himself as well, though she had no idea exactly why.

She wasn’t even sure if he would truly love their babe. He said he would, but…their babe wasn’t his. As much as she would like to pretend otherwise, it would first and foremost, always be Gaston’s. She shook her head, ridding her mind of such thoughts.

The sensation finally returned, and Belle didn’t stop the delightful giggle that escaped her lips.

It really _was_ true. She was really growing a tiny human being inside of her. A living, breathing, moving baby. Her babe.

 _Our child_ , she thought affectionately. She would one day be a mother and have a baby of her own, one she could love and care for, one that would make Belle feel worthwhile, that she wasn’t a horrible person because of the way her life circumstances turned out. It felt like to her it was the one occurrence Belle needed more than anything else to finally make her aware that this was the truth. It wasn’t her body or her mind playing any tricks on her.

She was well and truly going to become a loving mother. It stole her breath away, the only emotion she felt right now was a joy. No one was going to take away from her this being to love. She swiveled her head slightly, searching for Quasi’s reaction.

From a rather lost expression in his burning blue eyes, she deduced her husband had felt it for himself as well but didn’t know what it was. A muscle in his strong, angular almost Roman-jaw twitched and gave a spasm as he looked at her for an answer. Men really _were_ clueless, weren’t they? Belle sighed, though a tiny smile snaked its way across her lips as she locked gazes with her husband.

“That’s our baby moving, Quasi,” she whispered proudly, squeezing lightly onto his strong hand that was lying still on her stomach, almost hovering over her, as though afraid a stronger grip was going to exacerbate her injury.

“Our baby…” he repeated in a choked whisper, as though he was having trouble believing her words.

Belle nodded eagerly. “It’s happy, healthy, and can’t wait to meet us, love. Though I hope it will wait a little longer until he or she is ready to come out.” She chuckled lightly, the world slowly coming back to her. She blinked once, twice, to rid her lids of the sleep that had crusted on the outer edges of her eyes during her deep sleep that had accumulated there.

They were standing in the bell tower, joined together like two halves of a whole, and neither of them aware that Madellaine had somehow managed to enter into their sleeping loft with a wooden basin and a pile of fresh bandages in her hands.

The young woman was steadfast proving herself to be a wonderful friend to Belle, coming up faithfully on the hour to check on the poultice that she had applied to ward off the infection from where apparently, the Judge had stabbed Belle.

Belle couldn’t remember that part, only that in the moment of fear and doubt that she wasn’t going to survive another day, she’d turned instinctively to Quasi for her husband’s protection.

But whatever cognizant thought had been ruminating in her mind promptly died the split-second Quasi’s gaze moved from their conjoined hands and she was quick to recognize the dark cloud turning his pale blue irises almost cerulean in color. It was a look she liked to think she knew well, having seen it for the first time on their wedding night. Her breaths caught, stifling in her throat. She’d never seen it in him anywhere but during the night.

Even now, the same almost lustful gaze looked wild, making Belle feel slightly uneasy as she did not know what to expect, or where this behavior of his was stemming from, and coupled with the fact the young blonde thief was still lingering in the doorway, coughing once to clear her throat, as if to remind the couple that she was still there, patiently waiting to examine Belle.

“If you could please leave us, Madellaine, we would… _appreciate_ it,” Quasi almost barked at the young blonde.

She didn’t need to be repeated or told twice. Belle cringed as she suspected her new friend was still afraid of Quasi’s temper. Belle filed away a mental note to talk with her later, to see what could be done to repay her new friend for her selflessness and generosity. Belle’s cheeks flushed a vibrant rosy red, though they _were_ married, after all, so what she knew he wanted wasn’t improper in the eyes of the Lord, but still, their relationship was… _different_.

But yet again, Quasi didn’t give Belle much time to protest almost the moment they heard the unmistakable sound of the door of his tower loft shut closed as the young blonde swiftly made her exit in silence, spinning her around to face him, his lips pressed to hers as he grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her, somewhat roughly, back towards their marriage bed, though was gentle in laying her back down, her legs wrapping around his hips as the skirts of her nightdress were shoved further and further up her thighs, his hands wandering wherever they liked, reaching a little bit higher.

He generated all the right friction, almost having her see stars as a flash of blinding white lightning erupted from behind her lids. She skimmed across the small of his back, light, timid.

“Belle,” he panted, almost sounding desperate. “I—if you don’t want me to, I—if it’s too soon, then make me stop. Tell me.”

“No.” She was sure she sounded twice as drunk. “Don’t.”

“You’re fine?” he mumbled, sounding hesitant and unsure.

“Fine,” she croaked out faintly. No matter what he was feeling, she didn’t want him to stop now. She didn’t know how long they lay entangled like this, for several minutes, breathing as if both had been chased by a herd of stampeding cattle, but Belle felt strangely comforted that both of them were at a loss for what to do next, as she could tell her husband didn’t want to hurt her so soon after her recovery from the surgery, but in their moment of shared euphoria at feeling their baby kick within her, both knew it was far too late to take it back, and neither wanted to, regardless.

At last, Quasi began to move, slowly but deliberately. Belle wrapped her arms around his back, arching her hips as best as she could, crying out only once as a stinging sensation erupted from her ribcage, taking care not to jostle her right side too much. Her husband began to move faster, his hands digging into her hip, his fingers pressing into the hollow of the prominent bones. She didn’t want him to stop, and God bless him, he didn’t.

He gave a hoarse, catching moan as he spent himself inside of her. Belle felt a tiny pop give out in her chest that sent a spiraling warmth all throughout her body and to the tips of her toes, causing them to spasm apart, not sure she would be able to handle the culmination of the pleasure waves engulfing her body.

She clawed back against him, humming in pleasure, saw white behind closed lids, and forgot her own name for a moment.

And after that, for God only knew how long, the only sound that resonated in their little sleeping nook in his tower loft was the sound of their ragged, panting little gasps and the occasional cooing of pigeons that tended to nestle in the rafters high above.

Quasi was about to move off of his wife when he felt Belle’s hands splayed across his chest, her fingertips trailing down in a controlled, relaxed manner, and he heard her hum in pleasure. Her fingers trailed down a vein and to his bicep, stopping at his wrist.

He waited for his wife to speak as she turned her face to look up at him, still hovering over her. Her eyes were still glassy and bloodshot from lack of adequate rest due to her ordeal, little circles under Belle’s eyes, but Quasi still thought his wife the most beautiful creature he had ever been blessed to behold affront him.

It felt so good, to be satisfied, safe in his arms, as he rolled off of her at last, though propped himself up on his elbows to look at Belle before draping his arm over her stomach protectively.

“No one will touch you, Belle, as long as I’m alive. Either one of you. I _promise_ ,” he vowed, his hands caressing the top of her stomach. “It’s only up to you now to survive. Will you? For…for _me_?” he almost begged her.

Belle blinked, startled by the urgency of his request, nodding, trusting Quasi’s words. She was going to defy the odds and survive the ordeal of childbirth, however difficult it would be. She just had to, now that she had so much to live for.

She had things to look forward to, Belle realized, as she gave out a content little purr and scooted closer to Quasi, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder, falling into a deep sleep. She was more than glad about it. Belle was confident this was one promise her bell ringer aimed to keep.

And she wasn’t going to complain, she thought as she fell asleep, falling asleep to the slow, steady rhythm of hearing her husband’s slow heartbeat.


	49. To Let Go is to Start Anew

**CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT**

The daunting cathedral had always exuded an intimidating aura for as long as Darius Barret had been a clergyman within her walls. Now was no different as he approached the greyed structure, having vacated the premises.

He’d really needed a moment to himself after that conversation in the main level of the sanctuary with the young Barreau woman and had taken a walk to clear his mind, though admittedly, it was proving to be much more _difficult_ than he ever would have expected.

He let out a sigh.

Each tower and parapet that seemed to stretch eternally towards the skies above, competing to reach the heavens were illuminated by the now fully risen sun as light flowed over the newly awakened city of Paris.

Darius could not help but wonder if any of them had slept last night, but particularly Madellaine, as she had been the primary healer and caregiver for Belle while she healed.

The poor thing had been dead on her feet exhausted, as had Quasi and Belle.

He made a mental note to check on all of them when he set foot inside, but for now, his mind wanted another moment to linger outside, his soul wallowing in serene peace. 

_Do you remember the willow tree?_

Darius blinked, slowly looking towards the whisperer. This night, almost like many other nights, she was looking across the way at him with her dark hair unbound, the color rivaling the rich chocolate hues of Belle’s, and he’d always liked it that way.

No braids or clips or jewels or roses. Hanna would have liked it that way. He bloody knew it and swore by God with the Lord as his witness, that his tormented mind was playing a sport of his vision.

He was trapped in his own hellish illusion and was living in a world that only the priest was able to access in his tormented mind.

His face remained in a mask of perfect apathy, though the clergyman’s artistry made Hanna’s phantasm, this apparition of his own mind, smile.

Darius was dreaming, sleep-walking from exhaustion, yes, indulging in the pleasures of the unseen, that which haunted him so.

 _Why_ he had to let his deceased wife ghost him like this, he didn’t bloody know.

In fact, Darius could almost see Hanna de Barret jeering at him, her lips curled upward in the faintest of smirks, which says that he didn’t know either, because she’d always told him that he knew nothing.

But now he knew why his mind conjured images of his wife. He knew at the time of his wife’s murder, there had been things left unsaid; emotions shackled and kept pent up deep inside, words left imprisoned.

To him, Hanna was everywhere, inquiring after him, haunting, and almost every night when he lay down in the dormitories to go to sleep, Hanna was there, he felt the icy cold on his cheeks in the form of her slender fingers, whispering to him in an icy, frosty voice of hers.

 _Did you love me, Darius?_ He wasn’t sure why tonight was different, unlike other nights in times past when Darius considered himself a moron and something of an imbecile to not answer her, to not have an argument ready to give his dead wife, but tonight, he had one. _Did you_? She asked again. He fought back an onset of tears.

“ _Yes_. You _know_ I did.” He bit down on his bottom lip to swallow, whispering to himself in his quiet, assumed madness, grateful no other souls were standing outside affront the cathedral that he could see, talking to the apparition of his wife invented by his lonesome mind. “I always _will_ , Han. And…I don’t remember the willow tree, love, I remember _you_.”

Hanna felt silent, the silence reigning over them.

He was confident she was a false image of his lonely, sexually frustrated mind after God knows how many years now of celibacy, but somehow, Darius still let his damned mind play around with his pains. Darius blinked, surprised to see light crystal beads forming on the outer rims of Hanna’s dark brown eyes, looking across the way at him. Her face became twisted and disoriented in the attempts to stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. Never once had his wife ever cried, only until her last breath did he sees streaks of tears paint her cheeks as one of Frollo’s men ran the blade of his sword through her stomach.

Darius laughed silently to himself at the thought of Hanna crying, which his imagination was now witnessing, not sure why it was happening. Hanna was a young woman who had never cried once. She had a face as rigid as the finest purest marble granite, her words sharper than the steel of the finest Roman sword could craft, and the weakness of a princess, at least when it came to him in her life, then.

He loved her but did not want to choose her, and still, he loved her from a distance, though he knew it was wrong to let her torment him so. Darius held himself back, pleading, willing his mind to stop the hysteria. But still, his lips left the continuation of his heart against his will. 

“What _wasn’t_ right was when you were _taken_ from me, love. But I can’t…do this to myself anymore, sweetheart. I…have to let you go…”

Her back faced him as he spoke, her perfume smelling distinctly of strawberries and honey, the familiar scent wafting through his nostrils. It took him longer to decide whether or not to continue speaking to her or not, but he could not deny that what he had just spoken had been the truth.

Though Hanna’s spirit saved him the trouble of speaking. _Waiting for her?_ Hanna questioned without looking at Darius, instead of looking forward to where her eyes rested on the stars above them. This time, she merely nodded, still not meeting the man’s gaze.

It was a good enough start to a conversation that broke his heart. Hanna’s apparition shifted at the waist and her gaze drifted down to rest at the chain on his neck. His hands trembled as he lifted it over his head and held it out so she could catch the faint glint of the yellow old of her old ring in the moonlight. She examined it with intrigue and hurt. 

_I know what it’s like, husband,_ she said slowly _. To lose someone you love. I didn’t just lose my life that night, you know. I lost you_. She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat, blinking back tears. _It hurts. By the Lord our God, it hurts more than anything else that I’ve known_.

Darius sighed heavily, and his head shrunk down further between his shoulders, having difficulty looking into his wife’s piercing eyes, but he said nothing, knowing Hanna, even as a phantasm in this form, a project of his sleep-deprived state, would give him seven shades of holy hell for even daring to interrupt and trying to talk over his wife, then.

 _To see you like this breaks my heart, Darius. You’re just…fading away. Your grief is killing you because you are letting it_.

Father Darius, who had remained silent so far during her little speech meant to inspire words of encouragement somehow finally managed to tear his gaze away from the ring on its chain and looked up. Hanna’s form shimmered and waved, as she leaned forward and her voice dropped to a low murmur, her words so faint, they were the wind.

 _You cannot live for a memory, Darius. It’s not good enough. You have to find something here. In this life. Do you understand me_?

Unshed tears swam in the distraught priest’s eyes, but he fought back the effort to allow them to fall.

At last, he nodded wordlessly and felt his hands move of their own volition as he pocketed his wife’s ring. Darius slowly turned around, and as a consequence, did not see the phantasm of his own creative mind leave him, but he could hear it, as a faint winter breeze, the last vestiges of the otherwise cruel season, rustled through the night air, carrying the fallen, dead leaves with it.

As he stood there, his mind drifted back to his wife’s words. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to hold onto his ring for so long. There was, like it or not, never could be a cure for death, as much as he might wish for his sweet Hanna and their unnamed babe to return.

What was he _thinking_?!? The longer his mind dwelled on it, the more he was convinced that his deceased wife, of all people, had identified his problem correctly. He almost laughed, a bitter laugh to himself.

But if the archdeacon and bishop could see him now, they would surely think that all these years, the soldier’s mind had finally sent him over the edge and plunged Darius into that dark, endless chasm.

Darius could no longer deny it to himself: something was holding him back from taking the young mademoiselle’s suggestion earlier and starting over. Every time he felt he was finally rid of the cobwebs of his past, they inevitably return, thicker and more tenacious than before.

Every time Darius found himself alone, which was increasingly more and more these days, much to his chagrin, the memoirs came back. Relentless and remorseless in their attempts to send him insane. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, with her pretty pout and flashing dark eyes that had ensnared him and held him captive from the moment he first laid eyes on her. He could not forget his lovely wife.

Even if he wanted to attempt to put Hanna behind, as she herself had only just suggested, he couldn’t. The memory of her wouldn’t let him. In the beginning, after…after he’d left the wars, he’d told himself that leaving that life behind was the right thing to do.

He’d forced himself to believe that. He had closed his heart off, fighting against his brain to accept that it was better for all of them, and the Archdeacon had found him back then, a broken, huddled mess in front of the very doors that he now stood in front of, a single white lily clasped in his hands.

His newfound sense of honor once he had taken his vows, understanding that he had an obligation to serve the Lord, to live a life of peace, to leave his life of bloodshed, wars, and vengeance all behind him. It was that memory of the night Hanna was murdered, and the knowledge of how badly he had failed his wife and their unborn babe the two of them had created, that pained him the most.

The unbearable ache in his heart overwhelmed him whenever Hanna would cross his mind.

He saw when he woke and when he laid to rest. They were parted, and yet, even despite his wife’s words ringing in his eardrums, telling him, no, practically commanding him to let go of her memory, he could not manage to do it.

His mind was rushed by the memory of watching his wife die right in front of his eyes, powerless to save her life. Darius grimaced, tearing his terrified images away from the alarming image. His shaking hands found their way to the top of his pounding head. He could already feel a horrible migraine start to come.

The priest breathed heavy, scattered breaths while his large eyes gazed to the ground beneath his boots.

The alarmed young man blinked rapidly, trying desperately to rid his mind of that appalling, horrid memory. He breathed in and out repeatedly, but his exasperated lungs could simply not get in enough air. Hanna’s death haunted him daily and nightly as dreadful scenes of replaying that night over and over in his tormented mind consumed him, and the flashing images of his nightmares had only gotten worse throughout the years as they passed.

Darius exhaled a shaky breath through his nose, finding it strange how the building could look so formidable in the light of the nightfall. His hand moved to his neck, the hood of his monk’s habit rolling down over his slender shoulders. Darius lazily rolled his neck to crack it as he cocked his head to look down at the simple white flower in his palm. The delicate little thing laid calmly in his large, calloused, and blistered hand.

In the soft light from the moon, the plant’s colors looked delish. The thought of the young, beautiful blonde woman he’d met only hours ago flashed in his vivid memory. His back _still_ ached horribly when he walked from slamming onto the floor after he had hit that stupid pillar. The recollection of Madellaine de Barreau’s bright white smile danced precariously in the back of Father Darius’s mind.

If he focused long enough, he could swear that he heard her laugh as though the girl were right next to him. The memory of the young blonde almost resembled that of a fine oil painting as the warm hues from the moonlight and the reflections emanating from the stained glass windows had danced through her choppy golden blonde hair that fell to her chin in uneven layers, wisps and stray strands, framing a thin, oblong face with exceptional cheekbones. Her smile had laced over her slender face with such tenderness and sweetness, Darius was sure no woman held such a smile.

Though the moment he realized what he was _doing_ to himself, a sudden and sharp pain thrashed through his heart which such force that it caused the dark-haired thirty-two-year-old priest to stagger backward in surprise and alarm.

 _Almost_ tripping over the hem of his habit, though he flung out an arm, winding it around the marble pillar as he ascended the steps. He felt… _wrong_.

Or more so, what he was _feeling_ was wrong. It just had to be. His world around him had become brighter because of Hanna, the day they had met when she had fetched him a cup of cold water as their garrison had been merely passing through her village. For some strange reason, he was given the chance to turn back time, he would do it all over again, and this thought bloody terrified him. As much as his heart ached for Hanna to return to him, his hazy, hopeless dream could never come to fruition and she had said as much. There simply was, and never could be a cure for death.

And then there was Barreau. His heart gave a pitiful little lurch just thinking her name. Madellaine de Barreau’s bright burning blue eyes drenched his memory. Darius never would have imagined another woman besides his wife could invoke these new and old forgotten feelings, yet, here he was, broken, scarred, beating, but still very much feeling, and very much alive. These feelings were light, leaving him feeling utterly breathless.

Of course, these feelings were new to him after all this time, and yet they held a familiar but foreign aura to them, like a distant fond memory that he wanted to keep in a tiny vial, close to his chest, always.

Despite the warmth now spiraling in his chest at just the vision and thoughts of the young blonde woman who had worked selflessly and relentlessly to save Belle’s life, underneath it all, something dark within him stirred, the ‘wrong’ feeling, that told him what he felt was, well… _Wrong_.

And what was even _worse_ , a snakelike voice, a serpent’s hiss, sat at the back of his mind, taunting him, like the snake did to Adam and Eve in the garden. It taunted him, _had_ taunted him ever since he’d woken up in a daze to find Barreau hovering over him, looking rather worried.

 _You are pathetic, soldier. You’ve not learned your lesson at all_.

These unwanted, intrusive thoughts left Darius utterly speechless and pondering as to if there was any truth behind the snakelike voice’s words.

The tiny white lily in his hand was almost forgotten as his hold on the flower loosened. His blue eyes were left unblinking, ragged, gasping breaths hitching in his throat.

 _Oh! And what would Hanna say to see you like this, fawning over another woman_?

A heavy hand found its way back to his face. Darius squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an effort to block out the voice. The mocking tone was laced with amusement and judgment.

Unfortunately, by this stage in his life, he was more than well-acquainted with the tone, for the voices inside of his mind were his own.

_Did you really love your wife at all? From what it looks like, you’ve already flitted from one woman to the next. And don’t forget your vows…You can’t do it._

“No!” Darius’s faint, cracking voice erupted from his lips as though the distraught priest thought it could be the silencer to the demonic voices inside of his mind. His shallow breaths worsened as time passed the longer that he spent out here on the steps. “Y—you’re _wrong_ …I—I’m…h—happy…” he groaned. Unable to take it anymore, he buried his head in his hands, pieces of his dark locks sticky as they entangled in his slender fingers.

The lily he had been holding fell to the stone staircase as the chilly winter breeze carried the feeble thing to the ground

He was honestly amazed Sister Alice, God bless her, had been able to find a lily for him at the florist’s shop tonight.

The two women were so _different_ , he thought to himself. Whereas Hanna had been exotic and mysterious and almost otherworldly, the other was simple, practical, but still beautiful. Where one was feisty and vivacious, the other was calm and mild-tempered. One’s personality was stubborn and spirited, Madellaine de Barreau’s personality was gentle, placid, imperturbable, and every bit of an enigma to the young man.

The petals of the little flower that he had dropped bent to the ground.

The poor clergyman was very nearly hysterical at this point, the thundering of his heart relentless in his chest.

Darius was sure slick salty tears would drip from his lids at any given moment if he didn’t manage to calm himself down.

He tried and felt like he was failing to fight down the salty liquid as his throat hollowed and constricted, his lungs burning as the biting cold winter air thrashed in and out of him at a speed he could not manage to control, the fresh air burning him.

After a moment of deafening silence, the voices in the back of his mind had finally ceased to torment him. The only thing he could hear now was the wind flowing around his shaking body. 

His hands remained tugging on tufts of his short dark hair. His lungs had calmed slightly, the burning feeling slowly but surely subsidizing.

“I—I l—loved her, the _most_ …”

This was _wrong_. It _had_ to be wrong. How could he look at another woman like this? What would Hanna say to him?!?

The question swirled around in his throbbing head. As the air around him thickened, a horrible, abrupt bitterness seeped into the pit of his churning stomach.

As visions of the young woman’s face flitted through the forefront of his mind, he gazed down at the delicate flower that he’d accidentally dropped.

He had been hoping to give it to her as a small token to show the church’s appreciation for what she had done for Belle, though the selfish part of his mind, the part that he abhorred, simply wanted more time to linger with her in his mind.

And if that was a sin in the church’s eyes, then so be it. With an exhausted sigh, Darius knelt down on top of the front’s step’s platform and picked up the little flower, gingerly resting it in his palm. He stared at the lily with a thoughtful gaze.

His thoughts wandered to Madellaine for a long minute upon looking at the pure white lily. Darius exhaled a shaking breath that left his mouth as a puff of vapor in front of him.

He pressed the flower to his chest. The memories of earlier swirled in his mind. He was sure the tender area above his right eyebrow would smart and bruise for several days, from where he’d hit the pillar, he was sure of it.

He was confused, lost, but something good had come of it. Hanna was forcing him to go. To let her go.

He rose back to his fatigued, aching feet, still holding the plant to his slender chest to protect it from the elements of the bitter cold.

He looked over the mighty cathedral doors one last time, before tugging on the handles and disappearing into the darkness of the main level sanctuary.

The priest sincerely hoped the girl hadn’t left yet. He wanted to see her again. Darius inhaled sharply as his breaths were laced with the biting feeling of icy-cold as the bitter air around him hung in the vast, now empty nave of the cathedral, though he couldn’t manage to hide his disappointment when he looked in the familiar spot from earlier and did not see Madellaine there.

He throttled his urge to roar like an enraged dragon, his frustrations mounting. He swore, trying to keep track of the young blonde thief from Clopin’s camps was like trying to catch the wind in between his fingers, but he wanted to try anyway.   
Long, dark shadows slinked along the tall walls from the many candles that the Archdeacon looked to have re-lighted since Darius had stepped out to clear his head a little while ago.

Darius stood in front of the newly-closed doors. His aching bones were still shaking from what had transpired moments ago, not to mention running back and forth between the boy’s bell towers and back down into the kitchens, dealing with Alice’s barking temper with him not knowing what supplies Madellaine needed while she’d been tending to Belle upstairs.

Yet the moment had felt like it had lasted a century. His habit clung to his body uncomfortably, the thick woolen material scratchy and itchy with his body feeling fatigued and weak. The candlelight danced over his slender, towering form.

The jittery, dancing light from the candles made the shadows cast by his body look even taller than he really was. Darius stood silently in the nave as the seconds passed without him really being aware of it, the quietness deafening.

He took a heavy hand and drug it down his face as he tried to rid himself of his anxiousness.

This was…his _home_ , yes. The drained man plowed himself forward down the aisle at a slow pace. Everything around him loomed in shadow.

All the poor priest wanted was peace. If he had one more stressful or terrifying thought, the lonesome man would surely burst. The loneliness in his life was practically killing him, then.

With a heavy sigh and a slow ran of his hand through his dark hair with his hand, he turned on the heels of his boots, the low crackling of the candlelight was background noise, but for Darius, in his frustrated and agitated state, it was deafening.

This was odd. He wasn’t usually so attuned to these types of noises. Perhaps it was less about the noise, but more the heat? The radiating warmth hit Father Darius like a heavy, almost smothering blanket, rendering him feeling hot and light. He thought it impressive how such small lights could carry such warmth.

He stood staring up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, thinking for sure the holy mother was judging him.

Everything was still.

He himself was still and then if he couldn't find Barreau down here, then the next place he was going to look was the t—

‘ _Pop_!’ A sudden cracking noise from one of the candles startled the poor priest to the point of causing a heart murmur.

The sharp waves of alarm hit Barret fast and hard. The small but abrupt sound had caused him to withdraw his trembling hand back into himself once more. Well, he thought bitterly, clenching his teeth in agitation, that was one way to be brought back down to the land of the living. He almost growled.

His hand, currently curled tightly into a fist, unfurled to clutch at his chest. The thick fabric of his habit tangled within his rough, calloused fingers.

Darius didn’t know where this fit of jumpiness was coming from. His hammering heart had just begun to slow down when the man was able to breathe again.

He let his heavy hand rest on his heaving chest, and very nearly jumped out of his skin when a faint voice flowed through the deserted nave like a soft summer breeze. A woman’s voice.

 _Her_ voice.

“Father?” Her voice was faint and laced to the brim with concern as Darius froze, what little color was left in his face drained of shock as he slowly turned on his heels to look at her.

He shot Barreau a furtive, almost guilty look as Madellaine’s sharp, narrowed blue eyes raked over his slender frame, noticing how violently he was trembling, the beads of sweat starting to throng alongside the front of his temples.

Darius swallowed. Now would _definitely_ be a good time to leave.

He tried to take a step forward, though couldn’t. It felt as though his feet had been replaced with chunks of a huge stone.

His stomach churned in apprehension as her thin eyebrows knitted together in worry as she set aside the wooden medicinal bowl on one of the nearby side tables, perhaps harder than was necessary as the small side table had started to wobble.

 _Damnation_ , he thought miserably to himself. _She’s pretty._

Inspired by his silence as the only apt response as he struggled to think of something to say, Madellaine’s brows furrowed deeper into a frown.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked, cautiously taking a half-step forward, wringing her hands.

 _What a strange question_. He almost blinked. No one in the church had ever inquired after his health in this way before. On the contrary.

Back…before, in his ‘other’ life as a soldier, his enemies expressed the desire he go throw himself in the River Seine and drown.

He tried to speak, but it felt like there was a gag on his mouth. His tongue felt thick as he tried to speak, though, by some miracle of God, he found his voice.

“How—how’s your patient?” he asked, surprised at how hoarse and faint his voice was. Embarrassed, a light pink blush speckled along his cheeks as she quirked a brow Darius’s way.

Madellaine cast him a strange look over her shoulder before casting a wary glance towards the north bell tower stairs.

“I…haven’t checked on her yet, I think that’s going to have to wait until the morrow approaches, Father,” she confessed, though her cheeks were flushing bright pink of their own accord. He wondered why, though before he could open his mouth to ask, a tiny, guarded smile flitted across her beautiful features. “I wouldn’t go up there for a while if I were you. Otherwise, you might hear something well, _inappropriate_ for your holy ears,” Madellaine teased, shooting him a bright smile.

“Noted,” Darius chuckled, though he looked thoughtful as his own gaze followed where the blonde was looking. “The church owes you, milady. The bell ringer’s wife would most assuredly be dead were it not for your efforts. Who knows?”

Madellaine gave a start at his words, blinking owlishly at the handsome priest as he took a cautious step towards her, her mind struggling to process what the priest had just said to her.

 _She might be dead if it weren’t for you_. She looked back towards the north bell tower stairwell with a tired little sigh.

The handsome priest was as sharp and keen as a razor, his mind not showing to seem any times of dulling any time soon. She had saved Belle’s life. That made Belle her responsibility.

Well. That _did_ put a different angle on things. It was almost too much.

“Milady?”

She gradually became aware that Father Darius was frowning at her with a concerned look. “Are you well? Are you feeling all right?” he asked quietly.

Too overwhelmed to speak, Madellaine gave a curt shake of her head. “I—yes, Father, I—I’m _fine_!” she stammered out, her last word coming out a little bit harsher than she would have liked, as much to convince herself that she wasn’t, in fact, dead on her feet, but couldn’t manage to bring herself to sleep.

But to her surprise, a darkening look of anger flitted across those cerulean blue orbs of his as he held up his hand.

“Just Darius, please, milady, I prefer it,” he murmured in a low voice. His head felt like it was spinning from all the blood rushing to his cheeks. He really needed a moment, and yet, in his mind, he wanted more time to linger around the woman. “Our bell ringer and his wife owe you their lives, milady.”

Much to his surprise, however, she shook her head, dismissing her words, a muscle in her jaw twitching and her blue eyes darkened.

“That woman upstairs owes me _nothing_ , monsieur,” she answered quietly. “I’m _more_ than happy to help. She...Belle would have done the same for me. I...I think, monsieur...”

His heart was hammering inside his chest. He was afraid she could hear it. He took in a hitched breath as he stared at her, afraid to look away for fear the young blonde mademoiselle would vanish right before his eyes as if she were another phantasm of his lonely mind.

“How do you like it?” he asked, not bothering to stifle his soft smile at the look of shimmering wonder and awe in her brilliant blue eyes, or her shy, soft smile.

Madellaine turned her head in the direction of where the priest stood, almost directly in front of her, but closer now.

“Mmm?” she asked politely before she realized what he was referring to. “Oh. The...the church. It’s beautiful, Father,” she whispered softly, looking around at the stained glass windows and artwork around her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”

 _Oh, I think I have_ , he thought inwardly to himself.

God, but he thought she was one of the most captivating women he had ever laid eyes on.

Thoughts of Barreau permeated his mind ever since laying eyes on the blonde mademoiselle when she had walked in through those doors, Belle alongside her, looking like a work of art, like she herself belonged here amongst all the other marble seraphs near the Virgin Mary and Jesus. She was strong, independent, seemed to be able to take care of herself.

Madellaine had not flinched away from the blood nor the surgery that had been required in order to save young Belle’s life. How he himself had barely been able to veil his reflexive gasp and had looked away, repulsed, not sure where the behavior upstairs earlier had come from.

He was a former soldier, quite used to bloodshed, but perhaps it was different when the precious lifeforce was emanating from someone you cared for.

A slight smile flitted over his features at the thought that this celestial-like creature in front of him had saved Belle’s life. He didn’t know how long they stood there in silence, until Madellaine spoke up quizzically, sounding intrigued.

“How is that you could once _kill_ a man in battle, Father, and not mind the bloodshed, and yet you have _no_ stomach for medicines and surgeries?” Madellaine asked him, smiling at him in a way that caused his tongue to feel thick in his throat. 

She hadn’t meant it to him as an insult, merely an observation of the handsome young priest that she found rather strange and endearing. 

Darius was perhaps the strangest but sweetest man that she thought she’d ever met, yes.

Darius’s cheeks flushed high with color and the flustered man looked away, studying the black and white checkered floor beneath their boots in a far-too engrossed, interested manner.

Madellaine noticed his crestfallen and angry reaction and realized he had mistaken her meaning and stammered, trying to correct herself, reaching up a hand to tuck a wisp of her short, shaggy blonde hair back behind her ear, biting down on her lip.

“I—I’m not judging you, Father,” she tried to correct her mistake. “I—it’s not the most _enjoyable_ thing to do.”

She let out a nervous chuckle as she thought of the gruesome surgery poor Belle had been forced to undergo.

Madellaine shot the priest a nervous little smile that told the handsome man that she was trying her best.

“I—” Darius opened his mouth and had been about to elaborate and provide Madellaine with an answer, but the distant sound of what sounded like shouting coming from the opposite end of the cathedral interrupted what he’d been about to say next. “What the _hell_?” he growled through gritted teeth, his hot fire-seed of anger welling deep within his chest, grinding his teeth together and _cursing_ whoever it was had interrupted the moment alone with Madellaine de Barreau, though as he turned his head back around to regard the young woman, he was surprised to see a growing look of annoyance and fire in her eyes.

She quirked a thin brow the father’s way and rolled her eyes. 

“Aye, watch your _language_ , Father, you’re in a _church_ ,” she joked weakly, though as quickly as her beautiful smile had come, it slid off her face the moment shouting rent the air coming from the other end of the massive cathedral this late at night.

The horrible shouting rent the air as the awful noise drifted from the other side of the cathedral to where they stood.

Whatever was going on, it _wasn’t_ good, and Madellaine’s drained of color as she recognized the voice of their camp’s self-proclaimed king of the slums arguing in low tones with an older, wizened voice that sounded like the old Archdeacon of Josas.

Madellaine stifled a tiny grin that sounded faintly like Belle’s voice trailing behind the Archdeacon and Clopin Trouillefou as her new friend, god bless Belle, shouted something that caused her master’s voice to falter and splutter indignantly as he struggled to think of a retort to fire at her.

She’d only interacted with the young mademoiselle two times at best, though the last one she thought didn’t count as Belle had been unconscious for most of it while she’d mended her stab wound, she decided she liked the young woman already.

Anybody who could put their arrogant king in his place with just a few sharp words was very much a friend in her book.

Though the moment another of Clopin’s shouts rent the air, something within the young blonde woman shifted and her blue eyes darkened and hardened considerably.

“Stay _here_ , Darius, let _me_ handle our king. _I_ know how to deal with him. It is _me_ he wants, I won’t let Belle get in trouble for my actions. I—I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. I should have known he was going to come looking for me when I didn’t come back,” she murmured, her voice lowering an octave almost to a low growl.

She shot a quick glance towards Darius who was looking utterly confused and lost, his brows knitted together in confusion.

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Darius spoke up.

Gingerly, Madellaine lifted the skirts of her dress and turned on her heels, turning slightly so she could peer at the baffled, handsome priest over her shoulder, shooting him a wry little half-smile, though her blue eyes darkened considerably.

She chuckled sardonically and shook her head in disgust as another of Clopin’s shouts and whatever Belle said in response reached their eardrums.

“Perhaps it’s better that you _don’t_ , monsieur. I—I mean, _Darius_ ,” Madellaine quickly corrected upon seeing the priest shoot her a truly admonishing look as his own blue eyes hardened at the formal term for him.

There was a beat. A pause. Another shout, this time a yelp of indignation from the Archdeacon, of all likely people.

Madellaine rolled her eyes, groaning softly to herself.

“Oh, he’s going to _kill_ me. Our king is in...quite the _mood_ ," she growled sarcastically through gritted teeth. "I should _go_. I’m _sorry_ …” she mumbled lowly under her breath, dipping her head in Darius’s direction, and turned once more on the heels of her boots to quit the scene, though yet again, for a second time, she stopped.

“Wait.” He did not necessarily shout it at her, but nevertheless, something about the almost desperate, pleading tone of his voice gave the girl pause, and her feet did just that.

She waited. Madellaine turned, daring to peek over her shoulder at Father Darius once again, surprised to see he had an arm outstretched, as though he thought it would stop her leaving. It wouldn’t. Not when Clopin’s shouts rent the air.

Though it had been enough to stall her, just a moment longer as she once again heard the rich, smooth, melodious tones of the man’s voice, and paired with the shimmering blue of his eyes, and the tiny smile of hope that flitted across his pale features, there was no way that she could possibly refuse him.

“Yes?” She fell silent and waited patiently, careful to keep her voice calm, which was increasingly difficult as the shouts neared, causing her to flinch at the noise of her master’s shouts.

“Will I…” Darius paused, chewing at the wall of his mouth as he searched for the right words to say, though finally, decided to ask the only question he wanted an answer to at the moment. “Will I see you again?” he said, looking suddenly hurt.

Madellaine paused, torn between her two desires to stay here in the presence of the former soldier where she felt more than confident that she would be safe.

Something about Barret told her everything she needed to know about Darius.

This man was a kind and gentle soul, and suddenly, she had a hard time ever picturing the man in front of her as a soldier in his past life.

He would not hurt her. That much she knew of Darius. But…on the other hand, she needed to go see whatever it was that monsieur Clopin wanted, and Belle surely wouldn’t be able to last much longer alongside the Archdeacon in their combined efforts to calm the man’s temper down. Not without her help.

There was a cold burning to the self-proclaimed king’s rage, ice that scared Madellaine, though she’d never admitted it.

Those looks he would get where how Clopin showed dominance over his people and imparted fear upon people who had wronged him, or trespassed into their Court of Miracles.

Madellaine blinked, giving her head a curt shake to clear her mind as she realized the priest was still waiting on her answer. She turned around slightly to face Father Darius more.

“Yes,” she promised, something sparkling in her eyes, an emotion just underneath the surface of her brimming blue irises that Darius could not put a name to, but he decided he liked it.

This time, the man’s smile was more like that of a pleasant sunset; his lips curling into a soft grin that pinked her cheeks and made her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

He nodded, though he stayed rooted to his spot, transfixed, as the young blonde inclined her head slightly as a show of acknowledgment and respect towards the clergyman.

She turned around and marched down the hallway, feeling a muscle in her jaw twitch as she steeled herself to deal with the worst of Clopin’s rancor, ire, and growing annoyance.

Out of the corner of her eye, though Madellaine thought she saw Darius Barret turn away, she could have sworn he looked back at her and smiled. 

Madellaine was still smirking to herself as she stalked her way down the corridor, following the shouting, the thought of calming Clopin down the furthest thing from her mind. Her thoughts were strangely fixated on Darius.

She furrowed her brows at the strange thought, lost, feeling like she was drowning in the man’s blue eyes, but shook her head.

 _Where in God’s name had that come from_? She wondered.

Madellaine shook her head to rid her mind of thoughts of the priest, though she felt his eyes linger on her backside until she rounded the corner and disappeared from his line of sight.

As Darius watched the corridor, staring at the exact same spot where, until just a split second ago, Barreau had stood, it didn’t occur to him until he glanced down at his shaking palms that he had forgotten to give Madellaine de Barreau the flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darius, you adorable cinnamon roll, you. Well. At least now you'll have an excuse to find her again and give her that flower lol. I was going to have it be a rose, but I felt like that might come across as too strong, considering he's still technically a priest, and it felt a little too reminiscent of Hook giving Emma the rose in OUAT, and roses are sort of Belle's thing, anyways, so I changed it to a lily for simplicity purposes. Lol.
> 
> He is really growing me as a character with how damaged and desperate for peace he is. What can I say, I guess I have a complex for damaged hot guys. Thanks a lot, OUAT for starting that trend for me! (Kidding!)
> 
> The next chapter is one of my personal favorites as our lovely lady Belle gives Clopin a piece of her mind for disturbing the peace and sanctity of the church at an otherwise ungodly hour lol, and I'm excited to finally start exploring her friendship some with Madellaine, as I think the two ladies would really hit it off, and both women are in a world surrounded by men, so I'm of a mindset they'll get along quite well, and both women have a part to play in the handling of the eventual climax of the story with our dastardly Beast.


	50. Of Mounting Tempers and Desperate Pleas

**CHAPTER FORTY-NINE**

The shouting had roused Belle from her sleep. Belle, barely conscious at this point, rolled over and buried her head further underneath the mossy green duvet. She grumbled something unintelligible in protest as the noise came again.

She could recognize the voice though of the Archdeacon of Josas, sounding thoroughly disgruntled. Intrigued as the sound wafted its way up the stone stairwell from the main level of the sanctuary, Belle slid out of bed, drawing in a shuddering breath as her bare toes met the frigid cold hardwood floor, shivering and reaching for her slippers, casting one last glance at her husband, sleeping peacefully through the din of the shouting.

Belle almost rolled her eyes, though a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she turned on her heels and headed for the stairwell. Quasimodo really was a kind and gentle soul. He treated her well and asked for so very little in return.

Only her love, which she would have freely given the man anyways. He did not have to ask for it, and Quasi _never_ would.

Belle made that vow to herself as she quickened her pace.

She took the stairs as quickly as she possibly could, having to lift the hem of her shift and silken robe to avoid tripping, and the moment her feet stepped off the bottommost step, wildly looked to the left and right in search of the disturbance, following the sound of the Archdeacon’s voice.

Aside from the noise, even after all this time of weeks and months of her calling her newfound sanctuary her home, she marveled at how vast and silent the place was when various Masses or Vespers or Lauds weren’t in session and there were no other souls wandering about the cathedral at this late hour.

_Except for whoever is shouting_ , Belle thought angrily. She flinched as she felt the baby within her give an agitated kick.

Belle bit down on her bottom lip to stifle the cry of surprise. She gingerly rubbed her abdomen in hopes of soothing her babe’s movements.

“Shh, little one,” she whispered soothingly, wondering if the babe within her belly could hear her. “Your mama’s here. I _know_ , I’m grumpy about being woken up too, but let’s see if we can find whoever woke us up, little one, and tell them to mind their manners,” she grumbled sourly under her breath, still looking to the left and right for the source, and finally spotted the Archdeacon’s unmistakable form conversing with another, a vagabond by the looks of him, then.

Belle stood there in the hallway for a moment in awe of the dark-haired man, wondering what on earth it was he wanted. Although neither man could not see the bell ringer’s wife lurking in the shadows as a silent observer, her face paled in dawning annoyance and a groggy stupor at being roused prematurely from what had otherwise been a pleasant dream. The Archdeacon remained where he stood, conversing with the stranger in low tones, unaware that Belle approached.

Careful not to startle the older gentleman, Belle cautiously cleared her throat just as the Archdeacon had been about to turn on his heels, seemingly to dismiss the man he was talking to.

“M—monsieur?” she whispered, raising her voice slightly.

The Archdeacon stopped short, as did the other fellow, and looked around in a calm manner. The other man, Belle noticed, was not looking pleased with their conversation abruptly being cut short in such an unexpected manner at this hour. Automatically, Belle steeled herself, biting down on her lip. A nervous habit of hers whenever she was thinking, and right now, she was thinking this conversation was not necessarily going to be an easy one to be had with the fellow.

“Belle, is that you, my child?” The Archdeacon asked, his warbling voice kind, and yet, he sounded slightly concerned, as though worried that she was up and about at this late hour. He turned even further and visibly winced as the bell ringer’s wife bravely stepped from the shadows and into the light, lifting her gaze and jutting out her chin slightly to meet the other man’s gaze, a questioning look burning in her dark irises.

“Yes, monsieur,” she answered softly, hoping her voice sounded calm, though there was no disguising the note of minor annoyance, nor grogginess as her tone was laced with sleep. She cast down her eyes for a moment, thinking it strange how she’d had all that she wanted to say planned out in her head, but the moment she felt the burn of the other man’s gaze standing across from the Archdeacon of Josas, her tongue immediately felt like heavy clay in her mouth.

Who _was_ he, this man? And what in Heaven’s name did he want with the Archdeacon at well past midnight? At this rate, none of them would sleep tonight.

Too many questions were swirling around, jumbled, and unorganized, in Belle’s sleep-deprived mind, though God bless him, the Archdeacon seemed to pick up on her initial hesitation and decided to coax the young mademoiselle into saying whatever it is that she had ventured down from the tower for.

“Is everything _well_ , my child? I noticed that the other blonde lass, what was her name? Ah, mademoiselle Barreau, that she did not go up to your tower this evening. Is it your wound? Do the bandages need changing? Do you require an essence of nightshade perhaps, to help you sleep, milady?” he asked kindly.

As Belle slowly listened to the man’s words, it seemed as though a light had ignited in her narrowed, darkened eyes and she finally remembered everything she had wanted to say now.

“Ah, no, no nightshade is required, monsieur, I usually sleep just _peachy_ after being woken up by shouting, sir,” she murmured, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as her gaze temporarily flitted to that of the other man. His staring was strangely making her feel somewhat uneasy, though she couldn’t quite place why that was. It was as if he knew her somehow.

Her tone was clipped and brisk as she folded her arms across her chest. She was pleased to see, at a minimum, her words had a profound effect on the man next to the Archdeacon as his smug smirk slid instantly off of his tanned face and he physically winced at the rather hostile barb she’d spat.

He bowed his head, and Belle couldn’t be sure, though the young inventor’s daughter swore that he almost looked _ashamed_.

She silently seethed. _Good_ , she thought meanly to herself, feeling her long nails dig into the palms of her hands as her hands trembled at her sides.

_This man ought to be ashamed. He'll wake up half the church if he continues to carry on like t_ his. “Sorry.” The men looked up to see the brunette woman rubbing the back of her neck in a somewhat timid manner, looking nervous. “That was uncalled for.” She rubbed at her brows and clutched at her ribcage as a sharp swell of pain went up and down her spine. She gritted her teeth, powering through the spasmodic twitch. Her eyes narrowed in thought as the painful jolt passed.

Or at a minimum, was giving off the impression he had seen her before.

_Spying_ on her, perhaps, if the strange glint in the man’s eyes was anything for the sleep-deprived girl to go off. Belle bristled, gnashing her teeth together as she felt her anger well within herself, though Belle swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat and forced herself to remain calm.

Belle paused, searching for the right words, hoping to diffuse the tension in the room. “I merely heard… ah, _shouting_ , a—and wished to see if there was anything that I could do to assist you, monsieur,” she said. Belle calmly addressed the Archdeacon, though kept her narrowing gaze fixated steadily upon that of the dark-haired stranger’s, who she couldn’t help but notice was fidgeting with the ends of his long silken black ponytail, eyeing her, interested.

Questions attacked her mind, and though this fellow’s staring was making her begin to wish that she would have roused Quasi from his slumber and made him come downstairs with her, at the same time, there was another part of her mind, a nagging part, that told her to let her husband sleep, that he had stayed diligently by her side while she’d been unconscious and had not slept at all nor taken a proper restful break, she knew it.

_No_ , Belle thought wearily, giving her head a sad little shake to clear her mind. _Best to just let him sleep. He needs rest._

She parted her lips open slightly to speak, never once averting her gaze from the stranger’s darkened, narrowed gaze.

“Is there something that I can help you with, monsieur?” she questioned, hoping her voice sounded kind, though truth be told, she was quite perturbed at being woken up so bloody early.

“Clopin, mademoiselle,” he murmured, meeting her with a courteous bow, to which she answered begrudgingly in the same manner, hoping that her cheeks were no longer pink, though she was not expecting the man to bound forward on the soles of his black leather boots and kiss her on the cheek, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

She did not expect it, and it almost made her flinch, and the first thought that flitted through Belle’s mind was she was grateful Quasi was asleep.

For the man would surely have a fit if he saw all of this. This strange man whom she now knew called himself Clopin took a step back, but his strong, calloused, tanned hands remained on her arms, his grip tight, bordering on quite painful. There was a wide smile on his face, almost a Cheshire-Cat like grin. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and what she saw there made his blood run cold. The man was angry, but not with her.

“Do you not know who I am, young mademoiselle?” he questioned. Belle shook her head, but Clopin could see her faltering, her dark, sharp eyes, raking over his handsome face.

Clopin let out a sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, letting out a haggard, tired sigh.

“I am king to a local tribe of entertainers here in Paris.” He watched as recognition dawned over the bell ringer’s wife’s features. “As for whether or not you can help me? Perhaps you might,” he began, speaking slowly but cautiously, noticing as Belle forced a strained smile on her face. “I’m searching for one of my _own_ , young mademoiselle. She’s one of my best…”

He paused, seeming to search for the right words.

“ _Associates_ ,” he answered at last, either ignoring the tiny snort that Belle gave off sardonically through her nose or oblivious to it as he continued speaking. “I intend to bring her _back_. I sent her on an errand some time ago, but she has yet to return, and I see that you have now been safely returned to your…home.” Here, he paused and gestured towards the corridor they were standing in with a wide, sweeping flourish. “But my pretty little belle has _not_. I assume the girl is still here, hence my…arrival at this late hour, and for that, I do apologize, but surely, you _must_ understand, the lady is one of my best and my tribe and I _cannot_ afford to _lose_ her.”

Belle found her eyes widening in disbelief, though she quickly managed to compose her facial expression into one of calm indifference, hoping her eyes did not betray her emotions.

_Is he talking about Madellaine_? She wondered to herself. _He must be, she’s the only other woman here alongside myself and Alice_.

Her mind felt like it was utterly reeling, and as she looked to the left and right, Madellaine de Barreau was nowhere to be found.

The Archdeacon shot Belle a slightly admonishing glance, silently warning the young brunette not to interrupt as he slowly turned his head back around to look at the annoyed Romani king. He looked upon the vagabond with severe disapproval.

“If this young woman you are so intent on…escorting _home_ , is in fact within these walls, monsieur, I am afraid that you will _not_ touch her. For if she is here, she is under the claim to the sanctuary and God’s will is much stronger than yours, _king_.”

Belle, for her part, though she felt her heartbeat so rapidly against her chest that she could feel the blood pumping through her veins the moment the dark-haired king bounded forward, a cry of rage on his lips, looking as though he would quite like to raise his hand against the deacon, a new voice rent the air, _her_ voice, causing Belle to look up in alarm behind her.

Belle couldn’t help but gasp and turn towards Madellaine de Barreau as the short, petite little blonde quite literally stalked and marched her way down the hallway, her head held high. Madellaine briefly met Belle’s gaze and hardened her own gaze in response to Belle’s worried, taut expression.

“Let _me_ handle him,” she whispered, dropping her voice as she passed by Belle so that only she could hear her words.

“But—” Belle was promptly cut off as Madellaine paid no heed to her patient’s words and stomped, yes, quite literally stomped her way past Belle and to where her master stood waiting, noticing how the Archdeacon of Josas was looking at the unexpected arrival of the young woman in utter disbelief.

Judging by the murderous look in Clopin Trouillefou’s eyes, Madellaine was pretty sure, she thought, as her heart leaped up into her throat and she swore she could taste bile, that he would drag her out of the cathedral kicking and screaming.

“Where have you _been_ , Madellaine,” snarled Clopin as he moved to stand in front of the young blonde, his chest puffed out in his anger. “I’ve been searching all over the damned city!”

From a distance, the king of the Court of Miracles and his tribe he reigned over as their ruler looked angry, yes, but at such close proximity, where Madellaine and Belle both could clearly see the man heaving with fury, the two women could feel the full extent of the man’s rage, and practically see his skin turning a horrible, mottled scarlet, and they swore a vein in his neck popped a bit.

“How _dare_ you defy my commands, when I specifically _told_ you—” continued Clopin in a barking tone though his voice faltered when his gaze slid away from Madellaine’s eyes. The man seemed to take a slight step backward and his expression changed from one of bewilderment as he quickly took notice of the dark shadow looming protectively behind Belle. She stiffened, feeling it too, though did not have to look behind her to know it was Quasi.

Belle smiled, the edges of her lips twitching as she felt his strong tempered grip briefly wind around her left shoulder.

Clopin stiffened as the accursed wretch, this young woman’s husband, spoke, his normally quiet and soft tenor-like tones now clipped and hardened, much like the same manner he’d spoken to the king earlier when he’d been at his mercy. The wretch was rapidly losing his patience as he stalked towards Clopin, ignoring Belle’s quiet protests not to, and not seeing the Archdeacon shoot the bell ringer a disparaging look.

The bell ringer’s face was contorted into a truly twisted grimace as he stalked towards the king, his blue eyes narrowed in rage, his mouth pressed into a thin, rigid, and unmovable line, his pale face gaunt and immobile. His strong fists were clenched with blanched knuckles and the man’s nails dug deeply into his gloves, and before Clopin could open his mouth to speak, he felt himself being slammed in a violent manner against the wall. The creature’s face was merely inches away from his as the boy thrust his face so close to Clopin’s that the tips of their noses practically touched and was an abomination to look at.

“You will _not_ touch her _or_ my wife,” the monster growled, and it was more than enough to send a violent chill down the Romani king’s spine as his face drained of colors. A flash of brown and light lavender that was little more than a blur came into Clopin’s peripherals, and he felt himself relax and breathe a tiny sigh of relief the moment the young mademoiselle Belle placed a gentle hand on the monster’s right shoulder, gingerly tugging on his arm and trying to coax him off of the tall king.

“Mademoiselle, you would do well to control your _pet_ ,” he snarled, though he couldn’t help his nervous eyes as they darted from the pretty brunette and back towards his own girl.

Belle’s face paled in anger and shock as she felt something ugly rise within her chest, a fiery heat creeping to her cheeks. Was everything about her husband to be mocked, then? She could tell, not even having to look at the growing hurt in her husband's blue eyes, that his barb had wounded Quasi, judging by the little growl that he gave off threateningly, and she felt her own temper start to churn in the pit of her stomach.

“No, I don’t think that I _will_ , monsieur Clopin,” Belle answered stiffly by way of response, and even Clopin felt himself wince at the coldness that was in her voice. It was evident that he would find no help from the wretch’s wife here.

The moment Belle spoke her words, the creature’s ironclad grip around his throat tightened, hard enough to snap his neck. No. Clopin was well and truly on his own with this _brute_. Belle stiffened and straightened her posture as she ducked underneath Quasimodo’s outstretched arm, noticing how his hand was winding around the column of Clopin’s thick throat.

She parted her lips open slightly to speak, though before she could, a tiny squeaking noise reached her eardrums as Madellaine barreled towards them and almost tripped in her haste to appear in front of her master and at Belle’s left side.

“Master, I—it is _my_ fault. Punish me if you want, but don’t do this. do you _really_ want to cause a scene on Holy Ground,” Madellaine panted, taking this brief second of the tense silence between the small group that had gathered as an opportunity to interject and hopefully smooth the situation over with the king as much as possible. “Master. _King_ ,” she began again, curtsying before continuing. “I apologize for my tardiness in returning home. I had every intention of coming back, and I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, but I couldn’t—”

“Monsieur, it is _my_ fault!” came Belle’s strong voice, interrupting the young blonde thief before Madellaine could get another word in edgewise.

Both Madellaine and Quasi whirled around in shock as Belle hardened her gaze and bravely stepped forward in front of Madellaine, one arm held out in front of the blonde as though she thought that it might shield her from harm. Quasi stiffened.

This so-called false ‘king’ was one of the last people he wanted his wife anywhere near right now, though he felt something in his bewildered gaze soften slightly as Belle shot him a dark look, narrowing her eyes, warning him not to do it.

“Belle, I told you to—” Madellaine began hoarsely, horrified as the young brunette darted forward and curtsied yet again before the king of the slums, who seemed more than a little bit conflicted as to how he ought to react to the strange creature that was Notre Dame’s bell ringer’s pregnant wife.

“Monsieur Clopin, it is _I_ who am at fault here, not your servant,” Belle quickly explained, her voice pleading but earnest. “She was…indeed getting ready to leave,” she stammered, well aware she was lying through gritted teeth but didn’t bother correcting herself. “But I—I was _injured_ , and she’s helped me to heal. If it pleases you, I would like to ensure she stays a few more days as my wound still needs tending to, monsieur. _Please_.”

What followed was a thick, prolonged silence, that seemed to drag on for an eternity in the corridor as Belle felt Quasi’s gaze on her and the young blonde, though she avoided it by keeping her gaze firmly fixated on that of the king’s face.

When Clopin did finally regain control of his voice the moment Belle gingerly laid a hand on Quasi’s shoulder and gave her head a tiny shake no, he turned his head to the side to cough as the fingers wound around the column of his throat relieved themselves of their ironclad grip, and his lungs burned for air.

“I should have you _thrown_ out of our Court and flogged for such horrible theatrics, girl,” Clopin said in a low voice, addressing Madellaine, resulting in causing the already reasonably high tension in the cathedral’s corridor to rise to close to a breaking point. Madellaine _didn’t_ dare lift her gaze to look.

“What would you _punish_ her for? Madellaine has done nothing wrong, you—you half-witted cox-comb!” Belle snapped, her voice rising in anger and annoyance. Madellaine stifled a groan of agony and slowly turned at the waist to regard the other girl.

The bell ringer still stood cautiously by her side, one arm wound around her waist, almost possessively so, not wanting to let Belle get within another ten feet of the king of the rats and slums, occasionally shooting Clopin a distrustful, pointed glare.

Madellaine flinched as her gaze flitted between the two men. She didn’t know what had happened between them in the past, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good, she knew, though a startled shout from Clopin forced her mind back to their present situation at hand.

“You can’t talk to me like that! Don’t you _know_ , girl, there are _punishments_ in this city when a woman fails to recognize her place?” Clopin roared, the last vestiges of his patience finally breaking, and made a cautionary move forward, though he froze the moment he heard Quasimodo let out a low, rumbling growl from deep within the confines of his broad and chiseled chest.

Belle gritted her teeth in the effort to remain silent as her temper rapidly surged in her veins, though it did her little good. She stepped forward, against Quasi’s whispered murmurings in her ear not to, her facial features had developed an impenetrable hardness.

It was as if Clopin could read everything that Belle blamed the king for in one hard look.

“I would start knowing my place the sooner _you_ start treating your women in your life with _respect_ , you call yourself a _king_ , but you’re nothing but a hedge-born fool,” she snapped, glancing towards Madellaine’s ashen, horrified face, furrowing her brows into a frown. “Don’t punish Madellaine, I apologize profusely for my outburst, I merely do not wish to see one of my friends come to harm.”

Belle felt the corners of her lips twitch as she could swear she thought she saw the young blonde’s face brighten a little at the usage of the word ‘friends.’

She felt Quasi give a start her words as he moved to stand behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder, all the while continuing to shoot the street-rat in front of them a distrusting, slightly scathing look.

“Love, you don’t have to _do_ this, the—the stress isn’t good for you _or_ the baby. Let’s go back upstairs,” he whispered desperately into the shell of his ear, his soft, tenor-like tones of his voice practically shaking with the effort to control himself here in front of the Archdeacon, though Belle wondered if it were more for his own benefit and controlling his temper that he seemed to want to flee this uncomfortable scene as quickly as possible.

She shook her head no in response, flinching as she felt their baby growing within her give a rather violent little kick. Her gasp split the silence, but it wasn’t caused by her shock, but by the sudden rush of blood in her veins that had caused the babe she carried to react. She was only around eighteen weeks, or so Sister Alice had said a few hours ago when she had stopped by with a tray of supper for them, but it was still enough to cause her alarm. The sharp kick struck her wounded side from within and Belle doubled over in pain, clutching her slightly showing stomach and Quasi’s right arm with the other.

A low groan rose from her throat, and she dared not move, fearing something was wrong. Her concern and shock registered upon her face. As she righted herself, Belle stepped back a few paces from where Clopin stood, waiting for the pains to subside. In her mind, she checked her body and the babe within to be sure all was well. “I—is everything…are you _hurt_?” Quasi’s concerned, tenor-like tone asked, wrought with worry.

“Fine,” she managed to gasp out, still not letting go of his arm in case another spasm happened. If Belle had to hazard a guess, she suspected their baby was simply reacting to the shouting that Madellaine’s master had caused, not liking it at all.

Well. That made _two_ of them. Swallowing down hard past the growing lump in her throat, Belle lifted her hardened gaze.

She exhaled a shaking breath through her nose, enjoying the feeling of her husband rubbing comforting circles in the small of her back, trying to do what he could to take away her pain and discomfort. Belle shot Quasi a silent look, trying to convey her gratitude, before turning back to Madellaine’s master. “Don’t be hard on her, monsieur. _Talk_ with her if you must, and calmly, lest you want to wake up the entire church with your ungodly screaming, there’s a—a spare cloister room back the way you came down into the hallway, to your left, third door on the left, if you want privacy, but please…allow Madellaine to stay. Another week, at most, sir. Grant her that. If not for her, then…for me.”

Belle could feel Quasi still murmuring to her in a barely audible voice, gingerly tugging at the sleeve of her nightshift, almost in desperation, though she suspected it was for the sake of his own temper at risk of imploding that he wanted to leave.

“In a moment,” she whispered, not averting her gaze from Clopin’s as his hardened gaze flitted from Madellaine, who kept her head lowered, her eyes downcast in shame and embarrassment at the horrible situation she’d placed Belle in.

A muscle in the Romani king’s jaw twitched as he tore his darkened gaze away from Belle’s pleading, warm gaze and returned his attention to Madellaine, who didn’t look up at him. She only looked the moment the king strode forward, closing off the gap of space, and cupped her chin in his hand.

Madellaine made an odd, muffled noise at the back of her throat that sounded to Belle like a whimper, though whether it was of fear or pain, Belle couldn’t discern which was which. Belle felt her face become splotchy red in anger, and before she could step forward and open her mouth to retort, Clopin addressed Madellaine, and she promptly fell silent, biting down on her bottom lip and sticking it out in a slight little pout.

“Your intentions, little éclair, were well-meant.” Here, he cast a slightly suspicious, dark glance towards Belle, scoffing a little bit before turning back to look at the blonde. “It is for that reason that I will…permit you to stay here for another week. Nevertheless, I would still like a _word_ with you. And there will still be _consequences_ to your actions for not speaking with me prior for my express permission to this little…impromptu _arrangement_ ,” he growled, turning his darkening gaze briefly towards Belle. “But _I_ will see to that.”

Belle’s face blanched in anger and shock as Madellaine began to curtsy and thank her master before standing upright, not given anytime to react as the aging king grabbed her friend’s forearm and yanked her down the hall to the spare cloister cell.

After a moment of dreaded silence, watching the pair disappear down the darkened corridor and toward the corner, Belle and Quasi seemed at a loss as to what to do with themselves.

Though just before they could round the bend of the corner of the hallway that would take them to the spare cloister cell that Belle had made mention of, Madellaine caught the eye of Belle, who seemed pained and wanted to speak with her, though just as Quasi gestured towards Belle to follow him back upstairs, never once removing his strong arm from her middle.

Belle nodded only slightly when Madellaine inclined her head, silently trying to signal that she would be all right, that she knew of her king’s foul moods and could handle her master. The young brunette moved to follow her husband’s lead as they headed back up the stone stairwell towards the tower, but not before giving Quasi an affectionate squeeze of the hand.

Madellaine nodded curtly to herself, before turning her attention back to the disgruntled man dragging her away from the young woman, before she reminded herself that she had yet to change the girl’s bandages, hoping there was time afterward.

She could only hope that as Clopin’s tight grip on her arm increased in its pressure as his slender, tanned fingers curled around her arm, as she allowed herself to be led away from the Archdeacon, Belle, and Quasi, that she wasn’t making a grave mistake in agreeing to talk with the man sequestered in a room.

Though the girl could already tell by the fuming look in her king’s eyes that he was angry with her. She could only hope that the man would listen to reason, why she’d not come back…

A burning animosity was developing in the king’s eyes, and Madellaine could tell for whatever reason, she was likely the root cause of his problem, and if, judging by the smoldering look of rage in her master’s eyes, she was about to find herself in a spot of trouble that she wasn’t sure she would get out of now.

Very. Deep. Trouble.

So fixated on the precarious position she had managed to land herself in was Madellaine Renee de Barreau as Clopin Trouillefou more or less shoved her inside of the spare cloister cell and closed the door behind him, that she failed to notice Darius skulking in the shadows, looking utterly terrifying, and every bit the violent soldier of his past life, rather than the quiet, reserved priest she had interacted with twice now.

If she would have thought to look back, what she would have witnessed would have surely unnerved her, as his blue eyes burning brighter than midnight shadows narrowed until they were mere slits as the tall man clung to the shadows, a look of anger and concern dawning on his face as the door slammed shut before he could step from the shadows.


	51. An Unlikely Savior

**CHAPTER FIFTY**

Belle’s thoughts lingered on the idea of whether or not it was a good idea to leave Madellaine alone with that—that—ruffian of a man in the spare cloister cell, her chest tightening at the thought of that man so much as laying one hand on her. “We—we should have stayed, Quasi, we could have _helped_ Madellaine What if…what if that man _hurts_ her, love…” Her voice faded as she was led back up the stairwell, but her chest tightened even further as she heard the words. “We should go back down.”

“There’s _nothing_ we would have done for them except cause them more strife,” Quasi admitted begrudgingly, though he sounded thoroughly disgruntled and put off by the fact of leaving Madellaine alone with her master, just as much as Belle was bothered by it, which was a comfort.

And yet, Belle was collectively afraid of at the same time, more interfering on her part would only worsen things for the young woman who had saved her life the other night. She didn’t even have to ask Quasi what he thought. He thought the same, Belle could see it in the man’s glistening blue eyes.

He didn’t speak much, though Belle was surprised when he removed large buckets of water over a cauldron heated underneath the fire. The very same where Belle cooked for the two of them in the mornings. Her bruises were seen to and she wasn’t given the chance to argue as she was placed into a hot bath. The hot water was admittedly soothing and calmed the babe within her belly. The silence felt refreshing, though the look on monsieur Clopin’s face that looked as though he harbored ill intentions towards Madellaine de Barreau flitted through the forefront of her mind, soon the anxiety and fear that had wound its way around her heart and stomach like a snake quickly loosed.

The water was cold by the time Quasi returned, though she kept her eyes closed, her head resting on the back of the wooden bath basin, her face angled up towards the ceiling of the northeast corner of their loft.

“Did it help?” he questioned softly, referring to the hot bath to calm down her nerves, and hopefully, settle the babe in her belly so the two of them could go back to sleep, smiling as Belle peeked open one eyelid and slightly inclined her head, reluctantly getting out of the tub, though he looked at her with widened blue eyes, cloudy with desire and the nearly crazed ferocity of a man who had just exited battle, and the inventor’s daughter supposed that, perhaps for the bell ringer, he _had_.

Walking away from Clopin downstairs without hurting him took great effort on his part.

“Yes,” Belle whispered, glad that it was the only thing she needed to say. She said not a word as she clasped onto his hand and let him back to their sleeping nook, her exhaustion and stress of her pregnancy getting to her. Though she had enough stamina to allow her husband to have his need assuaged, though neither of them lasted very long. For now, Quasi was content to have his beauty, his Belle, lay snugly in his arms while he stared up at the ceiling, her lithe, naked body against his.

One of her delicate arms was draped over her middle, her dark chocolate locks splayed across his broad chest, her cheek pressing into his skin. His arms wound tightly around her, keeping both wife and unborn child safe and warm.

It had to be well past one o’clock by now, but sleep caught up with him quickly as coupled with the sound of his wife’s soft breathing, with the pattering of the rain and low rumbles of thunder that started outside, quickly lulled him to sleep. “I love you,” he whispered, hoping Belle could hear his words, even in sleep, as he pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. He lowered his voice even more as he felt one of his hands drift instinctively and settle over her stomach. “ _Both_ of you,” he murmured affectionately.

It wasn’t long before he drifted off into a sweet, peaceful sleep.

* * *

While the bell ringer and his wife were lost in the throes of peaceful sleep, admittedly their first since Gaston’s death, sad to admit it, the young woman who had saved Belle’s life from the brink of death was admittedly, _not_ having quite so peaceful a night as those two were fortunate to have. Madellaine’s heart was pounding loudly in the confines of her chest as Clopin closed the door behind him. At first, when that little confrontation between herself, her reluctant king and master, and Belle had taken place, he had seemed visibly annoyed, perhaps even disappointed that Madellaine had not bothered to return to the Court of Miracles but hadn’t spoken.

She hoped Clopin wasn’t too upset with her. The young woman had expected some amount of anger from her king, but certainly, it was nothing that they could not talk through together, as a king and servant, no?

As she looked at her king, who strode away from her facing the barred window and looking out at his city, her heartbeat quickened a bit. For a fleeting moment, Madellaine felt nothing but rage and pain at the treatment she had received while being more or less forced to join the Court of Miracles under penalty of death for picking the man’s pockets.

It wasn’t _her_ fault she had refused to work at the Prince’s castle alongside Maria, knowing, and the idea that Maria de Barreau knew this, that she would rather die before willingly sell her body and soul to a man.

That had been Maria’s path, but it would _never_ be hers. She would not be a man’s consort, no matter what. She would sooner rather starve.

And she almost _had_ , were it not for Clopin’s ‘kindness and generosity’ at not wanting to see a pretty little belle like her waste away. She winced as she swore that she saw a muscle in the man’s jaw twitch. The king of the Court of Miracles was undoubtedly going to yell at her, to ask her why she’d not come back. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Clopin, before you get _angry_ ,” Madellaine raised her hands in defense as her king and master continued to face away from the girl. “Just…just let me _explain_ ,” she pleaded, a note of desperation in her tone.

Madellaine waited, expecting the Romani king to interrupt her, to yell over her and refuse to let her speak, but Clopin did no such thing.

With his back still facing the young blonde, he remained silent and unstirred. She blinked. Perhaps he was willing to listen to reason, after all?

Though the moment Clopin turned to face her, her heart rate sped up as his eyes narrowed. Madellaine would never dare admit it openly, but it was a thing the King of his Court of Miracles and Judge Frollo (may God bless his soul not!) had in common; whereas the Judge, when the authority figure had still been alive evoked a profound horror with his ironclad upholding of the law, people knowing exactly what Frollo was capable of. Whereas Clopin, at least among those in his tribe elicited something more resembling panic, at least to those who crossed him, no one ever able to predict his actions, and this utterly frightened her.

Madellaine breathed in a deep breath and continued. “What Belle said outside a moment ago was the truth. She was injured. I helped to heal her wounds, but I think it would be a good idea if I were to stay here, sir. I made her a _promise_ , monsieur, that I would not leave until she was well.”

Madellaine’s voice was near shaking, as the young blonde knew anything she said might only anger the king further than he already was.

Clopin inhaled but still refused to face his best and brightest thief. “That is _twice_ in the span of two weeks you have managed to anger me, mademoiselle,” he spoke in a voice that could almost be described as a growl. Madellaine winced, swallowing past a lump in her throat. She knew he was referring to the incident where old Gwendolyn had made supper, and she had accidentally spilled his scalding hot soup all over his clothes.

And then this would appear to be the final proverbial nail in the coffin. “W—well, th—that doesn’t really matter now, monsieur, does it?”

He made an odd little noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh, though she had no time to dwell on what it might mean as he spoke.

“I have already given my consent to allow you to stay until the mademoiselle is healed, but that is immaterial to what I wish to discuss,” he barked, still not looking at Madellaine directly, but instead out the window. “There have been reports, young mademoiselle, that your lovely little belle of a _sister_ is on her way _here_ , to Notre Dame, to see _you_ , love. Judging by the fact a few of my scouts saw her on foot with two to three men and a hound, I would say you have about five days, at best before she arrives on the front steps of your…new _home_ ,” he chuckled darkly. “I merely thought, as her beloved little sister, you would want to know, love.”

His words were cold, rendering Madellaine’s blood to ice in her veins as Clopin finally turned around to face his servant and took a step towards Madellaine, causing her to instinctively take a step backward.

A voice in her head told her this was a _bad_ idea, urging her to turn on the heels of her boots and flee this cloister cell as fast as she possibly could, but her master’s words had rendered poor Madellaine to the floor.

“M—Maria?” she croaked out hoarsely. “Sh—she’s coming… _here_?” She was honestly surprised she could even find her voice with how badly it shook and how faint her tone had dropped to almost a hushed whisper.

She was filled with a sense of dread and elation that was both terrible, horrifying, and filled her with a sense of relief and euphoria, too. It left poor Madellaine de Barreau with an amazing sense of conflict, and the only thing she could do was swallow the lump in her throat and manage to squeak out, “Y—you aren’t _lying_ to me, monsieur?”

He crinkled his nose in disgust and indignation at her question. “Why would I _lie_ to you, little belle?” Clopin snorted, regarding his best thief with an incredulous yet disappointed look as he clucked his tongue at her. He spoke serenely, taking her hands into his and staring her right in the eyes, his deep gaze penetrating her pale blue irises intensely.

Madellaine had always felt uneasy under the observant, piercing gaze of her older sister growing up after both their parents died of the black fever, but this…oh, this was uncomfortable on a whole new level. The darkness of Clopin’s gaze burnt with a horrible madness, a madness so awful and vindictive that Madellaine dreaded to see more of it. She tried in vain to silence the voice now screaming in her head, deriving from what little stores of bravery her heart and mind had left.

“Your… _sister_ , little dove, caused a lot of _trouble_ for my men and I, sweetheart, perhaps you _remember_ , don’t you?” he whispered, almost sickeningly gleefully into the shell of her ear, eliciting a tremor down her back. “She and that bastard Prince of hers killed _six_ of my finest spies on their latest little hunting expedition through the woods… _Our_ woods…”

Madellaine inhaled a shaking breath as she stared at the king looming over her, blocking her only exit, the look of unbridled rage developing in his eyes utterly unmatched.

“I—I think I’ll go now,” she suggested, squirming against his ironclad grip. “You—you can just…stay in here as long as you need to. Collect yourself and get yourself under control. I’ll talk to you _later_ when you’ve calmed down,” she murmured, though Clopin remained silent. He just needed time to cool off, she tried to tell herself, and Madellaine figured she shouldn’t ask any more after Maria.

But before she could flee the cloister cell and escape the room and her angry master, the man’s hand shot out without any sort of warning at all. His fingers wound themselves tightly around her wrist as she was yanked back, roughly slammed against the wall by Clopin’s tight grip. Madellaine could only whimper as she was harshly dragged in front of the King of the Court of Miracles, who stared down his tanned nose with what the girl could only describe as hatred in his darkening eyes.

“How do you like it here, mademoiselle? In the church?” he asked her, pretending to be curious, pretending the blonde was all right with her master holding her hands, even though she most certainly was not at all.

A morbid flame appeared in the king’s darkened eyes, smiling widely. “One would almost think that you didn’t _want_ to come back, little dove,” he began, a slight mocking lilt to his voice now. He was teasing her. The smile was gone from his face as he continued, his eyes glistening. Now, Clopin did seem irritated. His previous flamboyant, almost boyishly charming nature was replaced by something darker.

He was growing angry. “You feel as though you’re being treated unfairly by me, little dove, don’t you? Don’t _lie_ to me, mademoiselle…”

Madellaine tried to contain her honesty, but in the end, couldn’t. “Yes.” It would do her no good to lie to her master, particularly not when he was in an already foul mood and considering they were still on Holy Ground. But she remained steadfast and headstrong in her resolve.

She would have elaborated, though Clopin sounded oddly hurt as if she had somehow found his weak spot. For the life of her, however, the thief could not figure out what that spot was for her master. She opened her mouth to speak, though he took advantage of her hesitancy just then.

“Well, my pet, then let me tell you a useful truth so you do not set yourself up for disappointment. You want more of life, I can tell that much, but life, mademoiselle is unfair. Anyone who tells you differently is _selling_ something. The people of this world are monsters, every last one. Just look at what happened to you and me growing up. You’ve your answer.”

Madellaine blinked in response as Clopin looked down at her, his thin mouth twisted into a sneer. It wasn’t often he spoke of his youth to her. She didn’t know much, only fragments. Just that he’d always been a street rat, just like her following her and Maria’s parents’ death, begging for scraps.

Eventually, he learned how to become a skilled pickpocket, and well, he claimed that the rest was history, and now he ruled over a people. His voice was bitter, but his speech was cut like a sharp dagger aimed towards her heart. Clopin did not sound as though he particularly enjoyed saying such stinging words to one of his highest-ranking thieves.

Madellaine frowned as she noticed his odd little sneer falter, his dark gaze drifting towards her pink, luscious lips and his eyelid twitched.

“I enjoy _breaking_ things when they no longer work for me, mademoiselle, did you know that? Like I plan to break your pretty little sister if she should ever dare to show her face in my Court again, but…” Clopin paused, clucking his tongue in mock disappointment, and shaking his head, his dark luscious ponytail swaying slightly as he did so.

His grasp on her hands tightened. Madellaine felt her breaths speeding up, though she tried not to show it, though her heart thundered relentlessly in her chest. She’d never been afraid of anyone before, she was not about to show cowardice in front of this false king, this old street rat.

But maybe the reason, she realized a fraction of a second too late as her blue eyes widened in shock and horror, was that she’d never been afraid, was that she’d never cared one iota what happened to her, as long as her sister, misguided though she was, remained safe, remained healthy.

But now she had a reason to try. She wanted to live if only to see Maria one more time, to try to reach Maria before it was too late for her.

“It hurts,” she said as calmly as she could manage, trying to break free from his grasp. Her entire body was afraid of him, what her master would do to her, but her mind was struggling to remain unbothered by it.

She’d seen enough monsters in her life thus far to feel some kind of indifference right now…hadn’t she? “Oh, I know, little dove, but I can’t very well… _hit_ your _sister_ , can I? She’s not _here_ is she, my little éclair?” he smiled at her, squeezing her fingers even tighter. Madellaine didn’t know what Clopin wanted with her, if the man was still furious with Maria over killing those scouts of his, or so he’d claimed. Just the thought was enough to make her _sick_ and her face turned an interesting shade of green at the idea.

It was enough to make her wonder if she screamed, would anyone hear her? Would Belle’s husband come running? Or one of the lay brothers? Or would they watch as he did whatever he was going to do to her within the walls of this holy and sacred place and let that be that, then?

Would they let Clopin beat her within an inch of her life because he was furious with her over something Maria had done, but she couldn’t help it if she and Maria looked alike and he grew sickened just looking at her.

They weren’t twins but might as well have been. Clopin’s hardened voice spoke up, chilling her bones, eliciting a shudder of fear down her back. “It’s _better_ when it hurts. Pain’s a _good_ thing, sweetheart. Makes one a man…or in your case, I guess I should say a _woman_ , but you know that.”

Oh, god did she. But why would Clopin want to hurt her? She had done almost _everything_ her master had asked of her, without fail most times. She was one of the best pickpockets in his stupid ranks, and she…she…

 _Oh_. Suddenly, the threat she posed to Clopin shot through her like a lightning bolt.

 _Maria_.

She was an ultimate threat to him and his men, and if the man couldn’t take it out on her sister, then he would take it out on _her_. Her insides clenched in fear at the implications of what that meant for her. Though the only pain she currently felt at the moment was coming from his tight squeezing on her fingers, she sensed it deep inside at what his deep-rooted desire to rid himself of her sister would cause him to do to her. No, no, no, no. It _couldn’t_ end like this, it just bloody well could not.

“You wouldn’t _dare_!” she snarled, anger welling in her veins.

“Why not?” Clopin looked around the room nonchalantly with a coldly casual shrug of his shoulders, proving no one was coming to stop him and shrugged with an almost innocent and childlike expression at her.

It was such a simple question, but brutal in its simplicity. It made her skin crawl. “The Archdeacon…” she whispered, horrified, cursing herself. She didn’t even know what she was trying to say at this point.

The elderly old clergyman of the church had never met her.

“The deacon is not here.” Clopin’s tone changed to annoyed and irate as his dark eyes narrowed and burned. “And I think we can keep it a little secret from that doddering old fool, darling. For…your _safety_ ,” he ended in a confidential whisper, a mocking lilt to his teasing tone now.

Madellaine frowned, unable to stifle the pained gasp of surprise that left her lips as his grip on her wrists tightened hard enough to break.

The young blonde squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears well up as all she could focus on was the sharp, stinging pain of the man’s dirty long fingernails sinking into the skin of her wrists, and a white flaring hot jolt of pain shot up from her wrist and through her arm and up to her spine.

“Let _go_ ,” she begged in a trembling, frightened voice. “ _Please_. Whatever I—my—my _traitor_ sister has done to you, I had _no_ part in, you _know_ that.”

This only caused Clopin’s grip to tighten, and she cried out as she felt a bone pop, confident he had just broken her wrist. Slick tears began to pour from her lids. “You’re in _no_ position to make requests, little mouse.”

Though the pain of her now-broken wrist of her non-dominant hand burned and emanated heat unlike anything she had ever felt before, she would not surrender so easily. She would not beg for her king’s mercy. And she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her grovel.

Madellaine kept her eyes clenched shut, her pretty features twisted and contorted in pain, almost praying to God if he listened to a criminal like her, wishing to dissociate from whatever horrible, painful punishment her master was about to inflict upon her, simply because she looked like Maria, and this vexed the king of the underground criminal scum, the street rats.

Though the sound of something clanging reached her eardrums and caused her ears to perk up at the noise. The door to the cloister cell burst open, and Clopin’s strong grip on her wrist subsided, leaving her limp. Without having a chance to react, Madellaine fell to the floor, using the cold stone wall as a support brace, and lowered herself to the ground.

She continued to tremble, her eyes still closed, cradling her dislocated wrist close to her breast, tears pouring down her lids as she bit down hard enough on her bottom lip to stifle back a half-choked sob. Something else clattered with a loud clang on the floor next to the blonde, and almost blindly, through her tear-filled vision, she groped for it, the cold surface of the blade that had fallen from a sheath around Clopin’s waist soothing a little bit to her raging and overwhelmed senses right now.

“Father, what a pleasant surprise…” came the king’s cold voice.

Madellaine blinked, struggling to focus her vision more than a few feet in front of herself, feeling like she was in some kind of foggy haze or a trance of some sort. A gypsy curse maybe, it was hard for her to tell what.

Her heart raced so quickly in her chest she feared it might explode, her breaths caught and stifled in her throat, her eardrums filled with the rush of blood. Acting on pure survival instinct, she hid the blade up the sleeve of her dress, ignoring the shallow cut it made somewhere on her bruised forearm on the way up.

Only once she was confident the dagger was secure did she look behind her to see what was transpiring right now.

It wasn’t the Archdeacon, as she had expected, but a savior nonetheless.

The handsome priest from earlier, Darius, stood in the flung-open doorway, glowering at the bastard of a self-proclaimed king, that worm, that street rat, in a way that could kill through the sheer iciness of the man’s penetrating stare that left her own insides cold, craving the warmth of the sun. Darius Barret did not seem as agitated as a normal man would be given the circumstances of what he had just walked into, but there was something different in his features. Maybe it was his silent fury.

When the priest spoke, his voice was clipped and hard. " _Get out_ ," he commanded calmly, though his entire body was shaking with the effort to restrain the worst of his own temper. Clopin merely smiled. The young blonde stared in shock. This was admittedly not what she had been expecting.

Fully expecting a brawl to break out, Madellaine watched, stunned, as the king merely dipped his head politely in acknowledgment.

"Father Darius, I did not know that you would still be _up_ at this late hour," he said formally, rather stiffly. "Forgive me, for I am nothing but a witless _worm_ , a _plague_ upon this planet meant to torment people."

" _Get away from he_ r!" The clergyman close to her age, though perhaps a few years older in his early thirties, bellowed, stepping in between the two, as if he thought using himself as a sort of shield would protect the young blonde from the older man's malicious intents. " _Leave_!"

"I'll go," Clopin said quietly, but he did not avert his gaze from Madellaine. "Remember, sweetheart," he called out, his tone cold and emotionless. "You don't do what I've asked, and you're mine when I get back."

"You will _not_ touch her!" shouted Darius. He reached up his other free hand and brushed his dark brown bangs out of his eyes in a moment of frustration. "You _will_ respect the sanctity of this church, or so help me, I will remove you myself if you cannot control yourself, and you _won't_ like how I do it. _Get out_. And don’t make me say it again. I will deal with you later. Do I really need to say it a _second_ time?" the priest growled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “ **LEAVE**!” Darius bellowed, the last of his patience with the temperamental Romani king tested when Clopin did not answer.

Clopin regarded the young priest for a moment. "Forgive me, Father," Clopin apologized mockingly, dipping his head and, before either the priest could protest it or Madellaine to alert the priest what was happening, Clopin reached down and licked the top of the priest's hands.

Recoiling in disgust, the priest jolted backward a few steps, his face paling in anger, his blue eyes the shield and sword, the gathering of clouds for a rainfall you would never witness. 

_Maybe_ , Madellaine thought to herself as she silently watched the scene unfold, one day, the priest would let others see that torrent, the release of anger and rage that felt like a downfall.

But first, he would have to let her in, and she could tell by the way he carried himself that he was a man that was too haunted by his past to open up to anyone else. A loner. An outcast. Just like she was.

" **GET OUT**!" roared Darius, having finally lost all his patience. 

When he turned at last to face Madellaine, there was no trace of emotions other than anger there. 

The man’s burning eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. At that moment, she knew Darius Barret was already far away.

Once more, Clopin had made himself a new enemy.

But what _else_ was new? Clopin's laughter filled the otherwise deserted halls of the cathedral as he took his leave, sparing one last glance over his shoulder.

His eyes were filled with sorrow and self-loathing, causing Madellaine to immediately look away in disgust.

Madellaine felt an involuntary tremor trip down her spine as she heard the front doors of the church on the other end of the hall slam shut.

The loud noise made her startle. The nightmare was over, and somehow, she’d managed to survive the king’s temper and yet, she did not feel as though Darius had saved her just now. 

Everything in her body still clenched tight in horror. She felt Darius coming closer and saw the man extending his hand to help her stand up. 

Madellaine stared at his palm numbly for a while, unsure whether or not her legs would support her, unwilling to touch any man right now, not after what almost happened.

Darius waited for a moment and then decided a change in his approach was necessary and managed to lift her on his own, his hands underneath her arms. 

Madellaine involuntarily shuddered at his surprisingly tender touch, opposing it for the moment, not sure she trusted it at all.

“You’re _safe_ now,” Darius stated, leading the poor girl to a chair. 

She did not want his touch; she did not want anything except for the world to leave her alone and to let her get a few precious hours of sleep, at best.

“Are you hurt?” he questioned, lowering his voice an octave as his burning blue eyes, still smoldering with a fathomless rage, gave her the once-over.

Madellaine gazed at Darius briefly before allowing herself to collapse onto the chair; the question sounding even more stupid and ridiculous than anything before. She almost snapped at Darius in her agitated state, adrenaline, and fear still coursing through her bloodstream.

“I…” she stammered, though her voice cracked as she blinked back a fresh wave of tears, swallowing down a hard lump in her throat. 

His brows raised at the finger markings on her wrists and how red her broken wrist was, not to mention dislocated and needing setting right. 

“You—you got here just in time,” she whispered, deflecting his question. He looked at her in silence for a moment, a muscle in his angular, strong jaw twitching, as though waiting for Madellaine to elaborate further.

Madellaine tried to mold the features of her face into something that resembled a mask of gratitude or perhaps relief or force words of thanks to coming out of her lips, though her tongue refused their release. Her body still violently shivered, the horrors of what she had narrowly escaped still vivid in her mind.

She was lucky she had gotten off with merely a dislocated wrist. She was stunned that her eyes were dry.

Madellaine didn’t want Darius to see her cry, either, though she drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as his bright blue eyes traveled the length of her arm, stopping at the outline of the knife under her sleeve.

“You _will_ get better protection, Madellaine, I can personally assure you of it. You won’t be needing that. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Darius reached out his hand expectantly. She hesitated, though, with great reluctance, she slid the knife out from her sleeve and handed it to the man as the priest took it and hid it behind his belt. 

Madellaine just gazed blankly at the hilt for a while, unable to function or speak at all.

Finally, she swallowed all the bitter, acidic stomach bile still in her throat and looked up at the priest, trying to convey just the right amount of horror, relief, and gratitude all in just one single look. 

In a way, she supposed she ought to be grateful for Darius barging in when he had.

 _If he hadn’t_ …she shuddered at the thought, not wanting to think it.

“Thank you, Darius.”

It was the only thing she could muster up the strength to utter at the moment. He had saved her, whether she liked it or not. He merely acknowledged it with a tiny nod.

“Clopin will not be bothering you anymore, milady,” he said, cautiously observing her, looking as though he had been about to make a motion to put a hand on her shoulder as if to offer some small form of comfort, but thought better of it, and rested his arm at his side instead.

“What will you do?” she asked fearfully, her body shaking.

“I will talk to him,” he answered, his blue eyes darkening in anger as a shadow of anger flitted across his face as he looked briefly towards the door where Clopin had disappeared, a fleeting rage sparking in his eyes.

Madellaine almost huffed in disbelief and indignation. 

“And…talking with him you think will be enough?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yes.”

She realized she wasn’t going to get anything more specific than that. Darius stared at her in silence for a moment and she withstood the handsome young priest’s gaze, trying to keep her feelings buried within and not let them reach her eyes. 

She shakily rose from the chair, though Darius bolted from his spot and wound his fingers around her forearm, helping her to stand.

“I—I’m okay,” she breathed out a shaking breath and then forced a laugh. “If only a bit light-headed and…embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” Darius sounded almost angry at Madellaine, though he offered a light but strained smile that caused the skin underneath his eyelids to crinkle as he smiled at her, winding his arm around her shoulders. “Your _king_ is the one who should feel shame,” he snarled, spitting the word ‘king’ as though it were poison upon his tongue. “Did he hurt you? Your wrist?” he questioned, looking at the young blonde with worried eyes. “I mean to say, are you able to come along with me, away from this cell? Can you walk?” he asked, looking at the girl worriedly.

Madellaine mutely nodded, keeping her lips pursed tightly shut, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak, she might almost vomit.

She hesitated. “Do you think I should try to go talk to him? I—it’s _my_ fault he’s so angry,” she whispered, her voice utterly shaking.

Darius vehemently shook his head, angry at even the suggestion.

“ _No_ ,” he growled in a curt tone. “You’re all right now. You’re safe, and I can promise you, I’m not letting him get within ten feet of you. I can protect you, just as I help Quasimodo look after Belle, if you’ll have me.”

Madellaine blinked, hardly daring to believe that. He was…offering his services, as a personal guard while she was here in the church? _Why_?!?

“I…I’d like that, Darius,” she whispered, her heart speaking for her before her mind could scream at her to take it back, that it was a mistake. "I'd welcome your company."

He smiled shyly, offering her his arm and she reluctantly accepted it, looping her uninjured arm around his, her body involuntarily leaning into the priest’s, her head resting against the crook of the man’s shoulder, failing to notice how just the simple gesture sent a tremor of pleasure down the man's spine, or how his cheeks flushed. 

Madellaine felt too traumatized to manage on her own as they walked slowly and surely out of the cloister cell and down the hallway, back in the direction that Belle and Quasimodo had disappeared to. She noticed it.

“Where are you taking me, Darius?” she managed to gasp out in a hoarse voice, surprised that she could summon the strength to speak at all.

“To a place where Clopin, or any _other_ man,” he growled in a low voice that could almost be described as a snarl, “won’t lay a finger on you. Not if they know what's _good_ for them.”

“And that is?” she queried, feeling like she already knew the answer.

She was rewarded for her question with the man’s answer as he swiveled his head to hers and led her up to the bell tower of Notre Dame.

“To the bell tower. No one will hurt you as long as Quasi’s up here. And I’m…” He hesitated, trailing off for a minute before he evidently found his right words and began to speak. “I’m right here where I’m standing, Madellaine. I’m not anywhere else. I'd like to...to be by your side. As a protector. If…if you want me, milady.”

“I…I’d like that,” Madellaine whispered, surprised to hear herself confess it as she tiredly let the handsome priest lead her up the stairwell that would take them to the south bell tower’s loft and as far away from Clopin as the man could possibly manage, with Madellaine unaware the poor priest himself was practically shaking in a rage with the effort to control his wrath.

Darius had thought for the moment when he had burst in the door and found the king of the slums with his hands wound tightly around the poor woman’s wrists that she was about to be killed, that he was too late when he’d finally summoned up the courage to dare to intrude upon them.

The priest did not think he’d be able to forget the horrible sick feeling he felt when he first saw Madellaine’s face twisted and contorted in pain and fear of the unknown of what had almost happened to her tonight.

The cold, sinking feeling that if he’d been a fraction of a second later, she would have been hurt even worse than she already bloody was.

It was a crushing, terrible, dreadful feeling that left Darius sick.

Darius wasn’t angry with Madellaine for any other reason other than the young woman had scared him so much tonight when Clopin had shut the door behind him. That was a fear he never wanted to face again.

And it was at that moment, her hand around his arm, that he silently vowed to do whatever it took to keep the girl safe and by his side.

Because she had asked him what he wanted. He wanted to start over, begin again anew, but that simply wasn’t good enough now.

He wanted to start over…with _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay minor progress on this new budding thing that needs some kind of ship name. Next chapter finally checks in on a certain lackey and our favorite bad, mad bitch, Maria, and then it flits back to Quasi/Belle, Darius etc. Since Maria is taking about 5 days to reach the cathedral I figure that gives me a few chapters to work with for relationship/friendship development before the shit really hits the fan with Maria/Beast’s plan. 😬😁


	52. Failure to See Reason

**CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE**

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth with a flick of his tail and—

“This accomplishes _nothing_!” the Beast growled, curling the edges of his lips upward and baring his fangs, though his teeth admittedly hadn’t changed much since… _before_. He swallowed hard past a lump in his throat. He would really rather not think about what he’d looked like before _this_.

The Beast restlessly paced on all fours, his twisted, gnarled horns casting odd shadows through the trashed remnants of the West Wing, where, in his fit of wolfish aggression that had always been there, he’d lain waste to the room, clawing at the portrait the Maestro had done of him.

Back when he had been _human_. Before that—that bitch of a witch had cursed him. The Beast didn’t tamper down the low rumbling growl that erupted from deep within his chest as he swung out a hairy arm, only for the sleeves of his robes to catch on a nearby clay vase, sending it shattering to the stone floor. This only added to the Beast Prince’s already frayed nerves and paranoia, his wild emotions as thinking the witch would return to curse him yet again for something she thought he’d done wrong.

In a fit of aggression, the Beast kicked out at a larger fragment of the now-shattered vase, he recognized it as one Mrs. Potts had brought in.

He watched, with narrowed blue eyes, the only remnants left of his past human self as the force of his wild kick sent the shard skittering across the West Wing only for it to hit the opposing wall and shatter even more.

Feeling slightly better than he did before, the Beast continued his stalking motion on all fours as his tail flicked back and forth in agitation before he paused and strode calmly over towards the Wing’s balcony terrace. As he gazed out over his castle grounds, he let out a tired sigh.

The Beast sighed. If only sleep for him would come so easily, but visions of the lovely Belle would not leave his mind.

Her pale, pristine skin was taunting his retinas, and the heavy, sweet smell of her chocolate hair still flared his nostrils. Everywhere he turned, the Beast saw the lovely mademoiselle in the shadows, her dark orbs glinting brightly in the moonlight, burning brighter than midnight torches in their hung sconces.

The parting of her luscious, pink lips, so ripe for kissing that easily weakened his hardened resolve to almost nothing at all. _Why_? Why was he unable to rid himself of her image? Why could the wench not leave him be in blessed peace? He did not care for the young mademoiselle’s _feelings_.

His dark blue eyes narrowed wistfully out at the rose gardens. Even now, he thought he could hear the lovely Belle, whispering to him.

 _Adam…come to me, Adam…_ like the sirens of the sea, mermaids, he’d heard stories of in the tales of old, from the weak-willed minded sailors at sea. The Beast wanted to touch her so badly, yet Belle was nowhere to be found in his castle or on the grounds. _Adam…set me free, Adam. Please…_

His blackened claws curled into shaking fists as he forced himself to stand upright, trying to remind himself he was not this much of a beast.

At least not yet, and desperate to cling to what little shards of humanity he still possessed. The Beast pounded the sides of his head, entangling his sharpened claws in his matted lumps of dark fur atop his head, tugging viciously at his horns, hoping to pry them right off his head.

Belle’s face was everywhere; it was all that the monster could see. Her oval, pale face was permanently indented into his mind, and he could not rid himself of the image of Gaston’s widow, now married to the wretch. He shuddered.

 _Seven hells_ , he thought, letting out a low, rumbling growl as the Beast thought of how the woman was pregnant with a demon in her belly. _I’ll kill it. I’ll kill her if she refuses me, that rutting sow, and the babe inside her, cut it out of her feed it to the wolves_ , Adam thought, baring his fangs in annoyance.

Every time the Beast closed his eyes, her bright, white smile would shine against his closed eyelids that did not grant him the courtesy of seeing the darkness that he so desperately began to crave in his monstrous form, but instead, colors of fondness, colors that he thought the lady would like.

When his eyes were open, all he could see were Belle’s brown eyes, beckoning him to be by her side with just the power of a single look. Except they were never looking at _him_ ; they were always set on the monstrous wretch, that disgusting bell ringer of Notre Dame that was barely half a man. The Judge’s ward. It made him want to tear her retinas.

Oh, _god_ , Adam could practically feel his hands, no wait, his _claws_ raking through her wavy luscious chocolate locks, letting her hair tumble free of its braids and clips, cascading down her bare, exposed shoulders. _No_! He gnashed his teeth together, raking his claws so hard into the cement floor beneath his paws that the concrete was now ruined permanently with his curse’s markings, a reminder he was not human.

The Beast knew he shouldn’t think about Belle anymore, she was a married wench; a lowborn girl with no status or class in highborn society, but he knew telling himself these truths of the girl would not matter at all. Belle Dupont had him wound around her littlest finger and the wench didn’t even know it. Or perhaps she did, and that was why his little dove had fought back against him.

That’s why her gaze in the courtyard when he had confronted Belle, presenting the young woman with his delish offer that he was sure she would not have been able to refuse, lingered on him. When she had slapped him, the unexpected gesture had sent a tremor of pleasure and ecstasy down his spine as he’d baited Belle with his words.

Yet she was always off with that bastard who did not deserve her. Notre Dame’s monstrous demonic creature did not deserve a pretty little belle like Gaston’s widow, and it infuriated the Beast Belle would never choose him. He supposed if Lumiere or perhaps even Cogsworth were here, his servants would tell him that his obsession for the young brunette mademoiselle wasn’t healthy and was bordering on the verge of insanity, and the Beast was sure to roar at them and tell the two men to get out.

He would care nothing for the consequences because his servants had no right to speak on his desire for Belle. The ship had long since sailed for the Beast-Prince to see any semblance of reasoning; all he could see now was Belle and the feelings she brought out of him, similar to Maria.

The admiration, the arousal, the aggravation, the lust, the desire…

The Beast growled, shaking his head to himself, and flicked his tail back and forth dangerously like a whip. Why couldn’t she just choose _him_?

What did that _creature_ have that he, a Prince of these lands, did not? _He_ could be poised, well-dressed. _He_ was intelligent, certainly more so than a sequestered bell ringer of a church ever could be. He was wealthy. Still, she chose a _monster_ over the likes of _him_. He didn’t understand, and the Beast-Prince could not bloody take this anymore.

He could not sit idly in his castle walls in its confines hidden away from the rest of the world while the woman entrapped in his darkening heart slipped from his claws. Belle would be his, oh yes, or she will die. It was an obvious ultimatum, with an obviously easy choice. _Him_. Belle was going to be his and his alone.

_Adam…come to me…_

The Beast turned his head in the direction of the West Wing’s entrance, his lips tilted in a wild grin. “My darling little belle,” he said.

 _Set me free_. It was a simple plea, but he would abide by it. The Beast licked his teeth as he stalked away from the balcony’s stone terrace. Maria would do as she said and would bring the girl back to him, though it was sure to be up to him to take care of that wretch, his newfound nemesis.

For where Belle went, the _monster_ was sure to follow, and when _that_ happened, well. The Beast smirked as his tail thrashed in a whip-like motion. He would take care of the wretch, and then Belle would be _his_. Some people would say that love made the heart grow fonder, but in Prince Adam’s case, his love for Belle was an obsession, and only made his blackened heart shrivel and grow darker that night out on the terrace. The Beast let out a low wolfish growl, his blue irises momentarily flashing gold as his hot fire-seed of anger welled within the pit of his belly as visions of the accursed wretch’s face flitted through the forefront of his mind. He’d still not forgotten the assault in the cathedral library that night.

Adam turned with a start upon hearing the door open, and in shuffled matronly old Mrs. Potts, her greying hair swept up into a comb, though a few loose tendrils had escaped from her bun. She looked tired. More lines were etched prematurely on her face, and her lips were pursed into such a thin, rigid line as she surveyed the mess of the West Wing.

“Come, young master,” she warbled in a hardened but firm tone. “I imagine a nice spot of tea spiked with some brandy will help you to sleep.”

Mrs. Potts set the metal tea bearing a teapot and a chipped teacup and saucer down on the table and surveyed her master’s huddled, crouching form, preferring the shadows of the West Wing to the light of the world and shook her head sadly to herself. She met his gaze and did not back down, bearing deep into those glistening pools of pale blue irises.

“Master,” she began hesitantly, painfully twisting her hands together, bringing them around to rest in front of her middle. Cogsworth and Lumiere had sent her up here with the notion of delivering a hot beverage to their newly transformed wretch of a master in the hopes of talking some sense into their Prince.

The men claimed that she was the only one whom the Beast truly respected and was hardly ever brazen with.

“ _What_?” he snarled, his voice a harsh, grating bark that sounded rough, like the edges of sandpaper scraping against an old wooden surface.

Mrs. Potts flinched at the biting bark to her master’s tone but did not back down. “The young mademoiselle has married another,” she said, lowering her voice and trying to ensure her voice remained quite calm, though truth be told, the third Head of House felt anything _but_ collected. In fact, poor Mrs. Potts was feeling quite flustered and out of her element.

In an instant, the Beast’s face turned sour, his eyes darkening to rage-filled pits as Mrs. Potts skittishly stepped back a little to await the violent tempest that was sure to come. “She resides in Notre Dame with her husband, Master. You would uproot the child from all she knows?”

“ _Don’t_ call it that!” Adam snarled, his blue eyes burning in rage.

“But that is what the boy _is_ , Your Grace,” Mrs. Potts said with a raise of her brow, and just a note of impatience in her warbling tone.

The Beast-Prince vehemently shook his head, not able to believe what he was hearing. He would have thought, among all his staff, Mrs. Potts, alongside Lumiere and Cogsworth, would have been on his side. He was beginning to think he had been wrong in that regard.

“ _No_!” he bellowed, beginning to shout, ignoring Mrs. Potts flinching and shirking away from the Beast’s stalking form in fear. “No! She—she loves me! _I_ should be her husband, not that _thing_ , the accursed demon has _spelled_ the Dupont girl, bewitched her somehow,” he snarled.

Mrs. Potts listened, her understanding quickly turning into an emotion that the aging woman could only describe as incredulity.

“You gave _up_ that right,” she impatiently reminded her master, something dark flitting across her slightly pudgy face as she was remembering the little incident in the courtyard that she and Lumiere had watched unfold from the kitchens, too afraid to intervene for the girl.

She was starting to wish they had. She regretted doing nothing.

“Perhaps the young mademoiselle might have been able to care for you, could have respected you, to see the same goodness in you that I always have,” Mrs. Potts briefly praised her Prince, before her expression turned sour and she looked at the Beast-Prince, her blood in her veins curdling like sour, spoiled milk. “But like it or not, the girl is _married_ , sire.”

“ _How_?” the Beast growled, though he squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of walking the luscious brunette beauty down the aisle of the nave the day she had married the creature, taunting her all the while doing it. “That monster is so _atrocious_ , a hideous assault to the senses. She—she probably can barely stand him. He _coerced_ her into marrying her, Potts.”

The Beast was certain there had to be some reason, other than Belle’s own heart, that would cause Belle to agree to become its wife.

He could not fathom that Belle would have developed genuine feelings for such a hideous creature that was a wretch, an almost-made.

Mrs. Potts sighed, swiping a loose strand of greying hair out of her eyes. “I did not anticipate this would be so difficult,” she murmured wearily, lifting her chin to look her master in the eyes, hoping her revulsion for his newfound beastly form did not show on her face. She hoped not.

“Perhaps she simply gave in for fear of her own life. He threatened her, perhaps,” the Beast conjectured, unwilling to see Mrs. Potts’s logic.

There had simply been no one present in the cathedral to draw Belle away from the monster’s zealousness and lustful ways, he was sure.

Mrs. Potts shook her head. “The young mademoiselle seems the headstrong type to me, master. Not the type to easily give in to anything.”

She scoffed, and then briefly wondered how much the hearing of Belle’s life, her marriage to someone who was now admittedly less hideous than that of the Prince must be tearing Adam apart from the inside out.

Her tone softened as she tried to explain. “I saw it in the young lass’s eyes when she…” She was careful here to mind her choice of words. “When she was a guest in your estate, young master. She _loves_ that boy, looks and all. I don’t think I’ve scarcely seen another woman so in love…”

A smile flitted across her lined and red-weathered face in spite of herself, however, the expression only incensed the Beast’s wrath further.

“ _I_ am that one that she should _love_!” The Beast shouted, unable to hold his ire any longer, and in his fit of a violent tempest, overturned the table that Mrs. Potts had just set the tea tray on. He stomped his paw forcefully on the table. Mrs. Potts watched as he looked quite deranged.

Livid, in fact, as the shadow of the wolf within darted across his face.

“Maria will bring her. The wench _promised_. She’ll bring her back,” the Beast seethed. “When she sees me, even like _this_ , and how well I will treat her, Belle will not be able to deny that she will break this…this curse.”

Mrs. Potts again shook her head sadly. “She will not leave.”

“Then Maria will _take_ her. The wretch too.” The Beast began to create options in his mind in his madness. “When they’re kept apart, she will remember how foolish she was to marry the wretch in the first place.”

Mrs. Potts stared at the Beast-Prince in utter disbelief, not sure when it was the last time she felt so flabbergasted and aghast in disgust.

She almost— _almost_ —laughed at the ridiculous mental image of Notre Dame’s bell ringer allowing that to happen without putting up a fight. Mrs. Potts had never met the bell ringer herself, though the stories had traveled fast throughout the city of Paris, of his unparalleled, almost god-like strength, and a monstrous temper to match his tenfold strength.

But she restrained herself and hardened her facial expression in response to her master’s aggression, hoping to implore him to see reason.

“I can guarantee you Belle and her husband will _not_ allow that to occur,” she almost snorted, looking earnestly towards her insane master.

Mrs. Potts looked up into her master’s eyes with a sad frown. It killed her inwardly to see the boy’s heartache so, longing for someone that he would never have. “Young master, _please_. I _beg_ of you,” she whispered, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, trying yet again to reach the man. “The girl is _pregnant_. She’s giving that boy a son or daughter. That’s _it_.”

The Beast could only stare in silence, a disgusted look on his face, his dream of the noble pureblood heir they might have created vanquished.

“You have been around the young mademoiselle a small handful of times now to gauge Belle’s personality,” Mrs. Potts continued solemnly. “Do you really believe that poor child to be the kind of woman who would just abandon her husband, her child, the life she’s created for herself, sire?”

Mrs. Potts narrowed her eyes and squinted at the Beast, seriously. The pit in the Beast’s stomach clawed its way up into his heart as Adam swore he tasted bile rising in the back of his throat as he shuddered.

“She can raise it here. We will raise it as our own,” Prince Adam offered, more to ease his own mind. “The babe is part of her. I will…learn to care for it in time, I’m sure.” He nodded earnestly, his mind made up.

Mrs. Potts’s lips parted open in shock as her face sagged and went slack with the enormity of what her master was proposing.

“Oh yes, dear, I’m sure that’s _exactly_ what Belle would want for her child growing up,” she began, a note of unmistakable sarcasm breaching the surface of her voice. “A man who tolerates it, rather than the babe’s devoted father.” She rolled her eyes and huffed in frustration, folding her arms across her chest. “Were that you could _hear_ yourself, Master.” Mrs. Potts demanded. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you even _know_ what it is that you are saying?”

“I know _exactly_ what I am saying.” The Beast lifted his chin. He narrowed his icy-blue eyes. "Are you contradicting me, Mrs. Potts?"

“I’m certain that stealing another man’s wife will go over for you just _swimmingly_ , my liege. A _fine_ way to win the woman's affections, indeed.” She sniffed her nose in disapproval and scrunched her nose in disgust and shock at the nonsense her master was spouting in his moment of insanity. Mrs. Potts spun on the Beast, imploring her and forcing the mad Prince to examine his grand master plan of kidnapping Belle and escorting her back to his castle’s estate for yet a second time. “Maria will surely have her neck snapped before getting within fifty feet of the young mademoiselle. You would want that for your…for her? You would willingly cause that lady’s death, solely to have Belle by your side?”

She illustrated a dreadful ending in the hopes of making him see. Her master said nothing. He simply stood there, his mouth contorted into a grimace, his nostrils of his snout flaring in agitation. His breaths shallow and quick from hate. “What did you _think_ she was going to _do_ , master?”

Mrs. Potts continued to grill her master in the hopes of understanding. “Did you _truly_ believe that the lady would go with you?”

She could no longer hold back her venom. Though she had spent a relatively short amount of time with the young mademoiselle, Mrs. Potts was relatively quick to decide that she liked Gaston Dupont’s widow, and did not wish to see Belle come to harm because of her master’s lusting.

Mrs. Potts’s distress over her master’s plan gnawed at her as she restlessly paced the floor of the West Wing, wishing he would see reason. She knew better than most the young woman was more than justified in choosing her own path, particularly after the death of Gaston. While she may not understand, she knew the girl harbored a deep, passionate love for the illustrious cathedral’s bell ringer, as unique and different as the young man looked. The two had made a life together.

The Prince had no right to disturb their union, or worse. Mrs. Potts knew she had only one choice. There was no other way to stop the disaster that promised to occur, though her thoughts were interrupted as her master spoke, pulling her from her dark tempest of thoughts in her mind.

“My mind is made up, Mrs. Potts. You and I are _not_ arguing about this,” he growled, and there was a note of finality in his deep, rumbling baritone that told Mrs. Potts she would be wise not to press him further.

Meekly, Mrs. Potts nodded, swallowing down past a lump in her throat, inclining her head as she sensed their conversation had come to an end, and politely excused herself, closing the door behind her as she did so.

A muscle in her jaw twitched as she shuffled and tottered her way down the hall until she reached Monsieur Cogsworth’s solar, not finding the old Head of House present. She walked assuredly to his desk and took a small piece of parchment paper from the topmost drawer. Upon the paper, she described the Prince’s intentions and beseeched the recipient for him. There was perhaps but one soul at the church now who could help.

She could only pray that the man would be willing to help her. It was going to take savagery with savagery to quell the mad Beast’s rage, and she was quite confident in her assessment of what little she knew of the man’s past that he was perhaps the only one left alive in Paris able to help.

At first light, she would make her way to the Prince’s ravenry and send her warning to Darius Barret at Notre Dame, praying she wasn’t too late.

Judging by when the Beast-Prince had sent out Maria and the three men, escorting their prisoner from his dungeons in chains alongside them, the raven had a day to reach the cathedral at best, and those nestled within the sanctuary’s walls had maybe five or so precious days before Maria arrived. And after that…maybe God help them all, but especially her.

Belle was going to need all the help she could get.

* * *

The darkling sky of the Wolves’ Wood stood teeming with ravens as Maria de Barreau stood watching the skirting and rustling of the trees’ boughs swaying, the movements seeming like no more than a brush of the sighing winds of winter. It had snowed before dawn and was sure to do so a second or third time before the next sunrise. The air was laden with the bone-deep chill of the encroaching blizzard, but Maria felt nothing at all. No more than she felt pain or hunger or…or love. Wait.

 _Love_. She gritted her teeth and gnashed them together so hard she felt her molars crack. There was nothing between her and her Prince.

Adam saw to that when he had coldly dismissed her, now favoring that little witch. _Belle_. The petite blonde little hearth keep and consort to Adam could hardly believe how the tables had turned at last.

“Oh, how the mighty will fall, and I’ll be there to _watch_ ,” Maria whispered to herself gleefully, unable to repress the high-pitched girlish giggle as she looked across the crackling fire one of her scouts had started, at their prisoner, and gave the length of chains in her hands a harsh tug, the corners of her thin lips twisting upward in a smirk as she heard their prisoner give a harsh yelp of pain. Sweet, sweet music to her eardrums.

Maria’s lips twisted upwards into a grimace more than a sneer as she looked across the fire at the orange light bathing half of the broken man’s face into the light, shrouding the other half in shadow. She was sure there was no creature that disgusted her while at the same time, she pitied this dark-haired man, this… _LeFou_.

A friend of Gaston Dupont’s, the man himself being a former friend of a Prince, though Dupont was long dead now, courtesy of the accursed wretch, that demon, that man of Notre Dame de Paris, yes.

Though just the thought of the Prince was enough to cause her heart to ache. She could feel the heated pool in her chest at night as the heat of missing the man overwhelmed her. Maria missed how his lips would ravage hers, how his teeth would leave markings around her neck, sometimes even going so far to draw blood on the column of her throat.

But her Prince was much a changed man, and not just in terms of the gypsy witch’s curse that had rendered him into some form of the wolfish beast more so than a man. Maria felt the pit forming uncomfortably in her stomach, as she realized what little heart her Prince possessed, was _hers_.

 _Belle’s_. The little _bitch_ had everything that Maria had ever wanted. Maria gnashed her white gleaming teeth in anger and felt her jaw lock up as she continued to stare dagger eyes at their fat prisoner.

The hearth keep was torn between her desires to tear out the man’s retinas with her own fingernails and make a mockery of him or save the delicious torture for when the time came to present the Prince’s gift of vengeance towards the brunette-haired wench at the steps of Notre Dame.

Though _tempting_ though it was at the thought of taking some of her aggression out on the sniveling whelp in front of her, she resisted, by some miracle of God, and opted to make this LeFou uncomfortable just by looking at him, which she was pleased to see, worked. He squirmed uncomfortably and let out a tiny, pained whimper.

“No use fighting it, _LeFool_ ,” Maria taunted in a singsong little voice, as if to emphasize her point, giving the manacles’ chains another harsh tug, smirking at how the metal clasps around his bound wrists chafed the man’s cracked and bleeding skin. “It will only hurt _worse_.”

She forced a smile on her face as the man nervously lifted his head to meet her gaze, studying Maria de Barreau’s strained, fake smile.

Maria had always smiled with her fake smile. She always thought that life, following her and Lena’s parents’ death, would be easier that way. Safer. To be kind to others, compliment them, while in reality, all Maria really wanted to do was the exact opposite. Spit in their face, insult them, not caring for the consequences even if she were punished for it.

She _liked_ it. Insulting people. Liked it a _lot_. More than anything. But that would only make her already hard life even more difficult which prevented Maria from acting out on these desires. But when she’d met the Prince, the man had seen right through her smile and didn’t buy it.

Or her charm. It was one of many things she liked about Adam. Maria blinked, forcing herself out of her musings of the Prince for now. She allowed herself to meet LeFou’s gaze as she gave another harsh tug on LeFou’s restraints, this time, causing the man to jolt to his feet and almost tumbled headfirst into the flames of the campfire pit.

A tiny snort escaped her lips as she tugged again, forcing the man to stumble his way around the campfire until he stood facing her, giving another violent tug, which elicited a cry of pain from LeFou and caused Gaston’s old friend to nervously lift his gaze to look Maria in the eyes.

“Good. That’s better. I like looking at you, fool,” Maria taunted, flashing him a disarmingly pretty white smile, though LeFou wasn’t fooled. The darkness pressed up against Gaston’s former best friend like a wet blanket, almost suffocating and smothering LeFou until he choked.

He could hear the ragged breaths of the ghosts that haunted him. Gaston is gone, he had to remind himself. He stood chilled and feverish in front of the blonde wench that reminded him of Violet, Tandy, and Collette, three blonde triplets who’d lusted after Gaston. Though _this_ one, this Maria de Barreau was a stunning blonde in her own right, there was something not at all right about the girl’s eyes. Something dark turned her blue irises almost cerulean in color. Something wild, unbalanced. He would even go so far as to say insane.

His first thought was the wench deserved to be taken to D’Arque’s insane asylum, though without Gaston and his connections, he had no way of sending any sort of message to plea for his freedom.

Following Gaston’s death and his unexpected capture when he bolted into the woods out of fear for his own life upon seeing the monstrous wretch beat Gaston to death with his own bare fists, he’d wandered lost in the Wolves’ Woods for days, only to stumble across the prince and this young blonde woman now holding the key to his freedom, the key to the manacles that tied his wrists together wound on a silver chain around her neck, taunting him as the key stopped at the line and swell of her breasts, and she _knew_ that it tormented him, too.

Maria was sure her prisoner knew she was trying to hide her feelings of immense hatred and dislike for him, and for Belle, but still.

She was bound and determined to fool the man. Maria contorted her lips into an awkward smile that even the fool here could tell, did not reach her smoldering, burning blue eyes. Her cheeks weren’t so compromising. When LeFou finally sniffed and dipped his head out of fear, averting the blonde’s gaze, Maria let her faux smile fall lifeless, allowing her face to return to its usual cold, hard expression of stone.

Maria nearly jumped out of her skin when the prisoner asked a question that she’d not been expecting from him in a weak, faint tone.

“Why do you hate Belle so much?” The bumbling, stammering fool did not sound angry with Maria de Barreau, but merely curious.

Maria paused, not sure where the question was coming from. She swallowed down hard, trying her hardest to contain her honesty, and in the end, prisoner or not, she found that she could. “The wench _took_ something of mine, _fool_ ,” she growled, visions of the Prince’s haunted pale blue orbs dancing in front of her tormented mind. “I’d like it _back_.”

The young blonde rolled her eyes and yanked again, relishing in the squeak of surprise LeFou gave off as the sheer force of her harsh tug caused the skin at his wrists to chafe, probably taking another layer of skin with it at this point, as the strength in his knees gave out and he tumbled, so now the man was kneeling on his knees at her eye-level.

“I know you think ill of me, monsieur, and with good reason,” Maria simpered, lowering her voice, and batting her long eyelashes, trying a different tactic. “It is no secret that I despise that little _bitch_ , but man’s law and my servitude towards our Prince requires that I do as he bids, and this is my master’s commands, and this is what I must do, monsieur,” she hissed through her teeth. “But she’s not _coming_ back.”

Her words were enough to cause LeFou’s head to jerk upright, his dark eyes wide in alarm and horror at the implication of her words.

“Wh- _what_?” he stammered harshly, the word sounding halfway somewhere between shock and anger at what Maria was suggesting.

At the woman’s cryptic words, he tried to retreat from Barreau, though the ironclad grip of the manacles on his wrists prevented him from taking another step backward. “The lady, Belle, she—she’s done nothing to you,” he insisted, his voice rising in desperation. “Let her be!”

“Let her _be_?” Maria raised a thin blonde brow at him, her tone deadly quiet and soft, causing LeFou to flinch. He almost—almost—would have preferred it if the hearth keep would have shouted at him.

His heart leaped to his throat as the blonde wench continued.

“I don’t _think_ so, _LeFool_ ,” she taunted meanly. “It’s true that I don’t think the bitch to be worthy of our Prince. The girl is _weak_. Spineless. She doesn’t know what the man likes. Not like _I_ do, fool.”

Maria paused, shuffling the length of iron-wrought chain she held in her hand, shifting it to her other hand, feeling its weight for herself. She rose, wincing at the stiffness in her joints, and moved to check on the rabbit roasting over the spit on the fire, when her prisoner said something that made her freeze, turning the blood in her veins to ice.

“How long have you loved him?” LeFou asked innocently, his question floating through the chilly, drafty eye like a hushed secret.

Maria slowly inclined her head and peeked over her shoulder, her pale features mottling crimson as the pudgy man’s face beheld on it a smirk she was sorely tempted to flay right off him, to see he never smiled again. The man, sensing her anger, shrugged and tried to correct himself.

“I—I mean…I—I’ve gotten used to sort of, reading people over the years, milady, to—to know wh—what they’re thinking, a—and feeling,” LeFou stammered, a sheen of sweat breaking on his brow.

Maria felt her face drain of what little color there was in it, to begin with as she felt her jaw drop open in shock and anger. Her heart began to rattle and pound like a wild dog against its chain restraints, howling at her, so audibly loud she was surprised the bumbling idiot in front of her, nervously smiling back at her couldn’t hear it for himself.

LeFou let out a soft, albeit nervous chuckle laced with fear as he awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other to ease the ache.

“I—I know you’re his…consort,” he said awkwardly after a moment’s hesitation. “B—but whatever the two of you had, he’s forgotten you, discarded you,” LeFou confessed. “I re—really don’t think Belle would be ah, _happy_ to take your place, mademoiselle, but I know. There’s that look, not even _you_ can hide from, even if you wanted to. It’s in your eyes. You thought he would be with you for all eternity, but such a union would never work in the eyes of the aristocracy because he’s a Prince of these lands and you…” LeFou crinkled his nose in disgust. “Are… a _complication_ ,” he admitted reluctantly, at last. “The world would never agree to the match and you _know_ that, don’t you?”

Maria silently fumed, seething in her rapidly swelling anger, feeling her long fingernails dig into the skin of her palm. She was tempted to kick the man square in the chest with the heel of her boot and send the bumbling fool backward into the flames of the campfire pit and watch him burn to death, the Prince’s gift is damned, then.

Why _should_ she parade this man around like a freak when Belle would be taken care of? She had no _intentions_ of bringing Belle back alive to him.

Her sister, now, on the other hand, well…if the rumors of what the scouts the Prince’s men had sent out were true, then to see her dear sweet Lena siding with the dark-haired little bitch who had ruined her life was most disconcerting, but Maria would see Madellaine removed from the church, no matter the cost. She’d drag her outside kicking and screaming if she had to, but she was getting the girl away from Belle.

The bitch was sure to be a horrible influence on her little sister, and that…Maria could not allow.

She could already picture the wench filling Lena’s head with dreams, that she could _choose_ whom to marry. The idea was a sick _joke_ that made Maria want to purge the contents of her stomach at just the thought, but she swallowed the bile. Maria gave her head a curt shake and shot the short, stout, pudgy man in front of her a look of daggers.

If looks could kill, Gaston’s former lackey would be dead in a fraction of a second before he could blink.

“I…you are _confused_ ,” Maria growled through gritted teeth, her words cold and devoid of any semblance of warmth. “Th—there’s nothing between the Prince and me. He is highborn and I am not. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and unless you want to keep that tongue of yours that must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends, fool, then shut up. Do you hear me? _Shut_. _Up_. I’m _warning_ you, I’ve just about reached my _limit_ with you, you blind, bumbling idiot! The next time you open your mouth to speak, _don’t_ , or I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to my hound over here as a little pre-hunt _snack_ , boy.” LeFou mumbled a fearful, half-hearted apology under his breath and promptly fell silent.

Maria looked past the man’s broad shoulder and into the flames of the flickering campfire, already seeing Belle burning. Belle had crossed a non-negotiable line when she had managed to capture the Prince’s attention, though her love had always had a wandering eye, only Maria could satiate the man’s needs as he liked it.

Now, Maria thought, all was _fair_ in love and war. She wasn’t going to allow herself to rest until Belle de Dupont was beaten, and she didn’t mean beaten down. She meant dead. Dead with an arrow right between her eyes or even better yet, food for the hounds in the same way the girl’s atrocious whelp of a father was rumored to have died by.

There wasn’t a place Belle could hide from her.

She could cower away in the walls of the cathedral, her precious sanctuary for all Maria cared, but since she did not believe in a God that would be so cruel as to take away _everything_ from her, the laws of sanctuary did not apply to her. She would destroy the wench’s life. Maria didn’t really care quite how it happened, just that it happened at all. She didn’t need Belle to suffer pretty much. The only thing the Prince’s consort needed was Belle’s dark umber eyes completely extinguished from this universe…

Others might have thought it a gross over-reaction if they could see the wicked expression of hatred and venom on the blonde hearth keep’s pale features, but everyone, including Belle, surely, had underestimated just how much Maria loved her Prince. She really _did_.

“I’m _coming_ , Belle, belle, pretty little belle, little flower,” Maria whispered venomously, lowering her voice so that neither the hunter that accompanied her nor their prisoner was able to hear her words.

She knew from this distance Belle Dupont could not hear her. They still had about four or five days until they reached Notre Dame from this distance, according to the scout to her left now removing the rabbit off of its spit and beginning to cut it up into pieces to eat the thing.

LeFou’s face turned an interesting shade of green and he refused when offered. Maria snorted and rolled her eyes, biting off into its leg.

“Suit yourself, wretch, but this is your only chance to eat tonight. You're missing out, it's good meat, You really should try it, though if you throw it back up, old Mansart here,” she gave a jerk of her head towards the soldier accompanying the pair of them, "will get offended you ruined his kill and just make you eat what you threw up, so if you _do_ eat it, don't get sick," she grinned wickedly, her blue eyes flashing, tearing her attention away from LeFou, and looked towards the edges of the Wolves Woods.

Maria de Barreau liked to imagine that, in her own way, both Belle and her _sweet_ little sister were able to hear her words.

_I’m coming for you. Just know it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew, ew, and ew. Maria really is a piece of work, but the Sith Lord side of my writing loves every twisted thought Madellaine's older sister has lol. The next chapter is a fun one as it checks back in on my lovely Dariline and Quasbelle pairings, who, I'm happy to say, get a little bit of a breather and some light fluff coming, after all, that's happened, to break up all the dark stuff.
> 
> I guess it's a good thing they still have 5-ish days of peace or so before Maria arrives with poor LeFou in tow. Also, I will happily take reader suggestions for ideas of what to name Baby Quasbelle, as my mind is coming up blank with French baby names, haha.


	53. You Won't Lose Me

**CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO**

Blissfully unaware that danger was headed their way, while at the same time the raven took to the night skies carrying Mrs. Potts’ message, Darius and Madellaine did not speak much as the priest led the young blonde up the stairwell and instead of going left when they reached the door, that took them to Quasi and Belle’s tower loft in the north tower, the two went to the right, towards the more deserted south tower, for privacy.

Though the unusual pair of them paused as they heard the familiar gait of the bell ringer’s steps as he was roused from his sleep a _third_ time, looking less than pleased upon seeing intruders venture up the stairwell, his hands balled into fists at his side and blue eyes narrowed in anger, though he quickly allowed the tension in his shoulders to leave when he saw it was only Darius and Madellaine, though his brows knitted together in a quandary as he took in the sight of her wrist.

“Darius?” he questioned, a note of worry and concern worming its way into the pit of his stomach, not liking how the young woman was practically swaying on her feet from exhaustion.

But before Quasi could open his mouth to speak, Darius interjected, a hint of steel laced throughout his voice that told Notre Dame’s only bell ringer that he had done well to listen to him.

“She’s hurt. I’m taking Madellaine to your south tower loft to prepare a place for her to sleep if you are agreeable, Quasi. It’s warmer up here, _surprisingly_ ,” he grumbled darkly under his breath, “I thought she’d be safe up here. No one will hurt her as long as we’re here. She—she’s _hurt_. Clopin injured her, did something to her wrist. I think it’s _broken_. I’ll deal with him in the morning, but for right now, she’s hurt, and I need to take a look,” he snapped.

Quasi silently considered the priest’s angry request at asking if Madellaine could stay in the south tower, close to him, flinched at the note of anger in the kind and quiet priest’s tones, though he quickly nodded his agreement.

“O—of course, Darius, I consider you both friends, you—you don’t need to _ask_ ,” he stammered, offering an apologetic, pained look to the young woman who had saved his wife’s life.

Only now that Belle was awake and talking more was Quasi comfortable with even a few feet of distance between himself and Belle. He had seen to her every single need since she’d woken up.

He’d spooned warm soup, little more than broth, to her lips, fetched extra blankets for her when she grew cold in the night, and saw to it she drank the tea that Alice had brought for her. But what Quasi wanted most, however, was for Belle to heal.

Quasi quickly nodded his agreement. “I—I’ll see if I can fetch some extra blankets and pillows,” he offered kindly, smiling a little at the nonplussed expression on the handsome priest’s face. Darius’s face slowly allowed a grateful smile to flit across his face, grateful and happy that he wouldn’t need to leave her alone.

Quasi turned on his heels to fetch Darius a pile of spare blankets, but before he could, paused and peeked over his shoulder, just in time to see Belle shuffling out of bed, her face pale and drowsy from being roused from her sleep, but unhurt.

Belle’s face instantly brightened when she saw Madellaine, and it did not escape her sharp, attentive eye how the father was looking at the young blonde, though whether or not Madellaine was aware of it yet remained to be seen, but only time would tell.

Belle shuffled forward delicately and gingerly, careful to mind her wound, and clasped Madellaine’s good hand in hers at the precise moment her husband returned and handed the promised pile of blankets and pillows to Darius, who murmured his thanks under his breath and tucked them under his arm.

“How can we thank you, my friend?” Belle pleaded in earnest. “You saved my life, and for that, I owe you my very life, milady, I—I think that I have some spare dresses if you would like. It looks like what you’re wearing is the only clothing you have." She cringed and tried to ignore the embarrassed blush that speckled along the young blonde's cheeks, though she shoved aside her own discomfort and continued with her offer, wanting to do whatever she could to show her gratitude to the young woman who had saved her life. "Given my…my _condition_ , I would more than be happy to let you have a few of my dresses that won’t fit me anymore, won’t you please take them? It’s the least that I can do,” Belle whispered softly, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks, unable to maintain her composure as an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief ran through her, and she fought down the lump forming in her throat.

Madellaine paused, touched by the kind gesture from the young woman, while forcing a strained smile that she knew didn’t meet her eyes, yet somehow, the tempered strength of feeling Darius’s hand-wound around her waist gave her strength.

“You don’t owe me anything, my friend. The greatest gift that you could repay me with is simply to recover, and…” she hesitated, biting down on her bottom lip. “Join me for breakfast in the morning? I…you and I didn’t really get a chance to talk face-to-face, before…everything happened, I…I don’t have many women my own age that I can talk to, I’m afraid, and I would love to be able to call you my friend, Belle,” Madellaine questioned, a tiny note of hope in her voice, hoping she wasn’t distressing Belle by bringing up mention of the incident that had caused her injury.

Belle’s smile quickly became real and genuine before she was even aware of it. “I would like that,” she murmured gratefully, inclining her head, and reluctantly allowed Darius to steer her new friend down the walkway that led them to the south tower loft. Quasi and Belle watched the pair of their silhouettes fade, Quasi’s strong arms snaking around her middle, his hands coming to rest on his wife’s abdomen, smiling as he felt their baby move.

“That man is in love, Quasi, just look at Darius, look,” she whispered joyfully, smiling through the pain in her side, unaware that the words had tumbled out of her mouth until she felt the bell ringer give a start at her words, before quickly recovering and pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to her cheek and looking to the front.

“With?” he pressed, feeling sure he already knew the answer, but still, he wanted to hear it from Belle’s lips herself.

“ _Her_.” Belle’s tone had a slight teasing lilt to her voice now, and Quasimodo knew exactly who his wife was talking about, just by the intonation of her sweet voice.

Admittedly, he was a little surprised by this inference. Darius was a priest, a clergyman. For the man to fall in love was expressly forbidden since he had taken the vows, unless he himself was aware of these feelings and chose to forsake the cathedral and leave this life behind him, start anew.

Quasi froze, straining his ears to listen for more sounds.

“Darius?” came Madellaine’s voice, sounding pained, it sounded to Quasi and Belle as they listened that she was talking with the priest more as a distraction for her pain than anything.

The two heard the young man clear his throat. “Yes?”

“What’s your favorite color? I—talk about something, _anything_ , so that I don’t think about my wrist, please, I… it—it _hurts_ ,” came the girl’s voice in a hushed whisper. There was a beat. A pause. Belle and Quasi’s brows furrowed in tandem as for a moment, they thought the handsome priest and former soldier wasn’t going to answer Clopin’s thief. And then—

“It’s the color of your hair.” Darius’s voice was shy, quiet.

Quasi felt his face drain of all colors, what little of it was left.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Quasi moaned, the hushed, horrified little whisper of shock escaping his lips before he could stop himself, and he did not hear what the girl said in response, though by that point, the pair was long gone, having undoubtedly reached the south tower’s loft by now. He rested his chin on Belle’s shoulder.

Belle smiled and shifted, squirming slightly in Quasimodo’s strong grip, though her soft, excited smile quickly faded. “Love?” His pale face was rigid, like that of the finest marble and something dark was flitting through his flashing pale blue eyes.

If Quasi was being completely honest with himself, he could not say that he was exactly thrilled with these developments.

It wasn’t because of what Darius was, but he was constantly disgusted with the gossip of the so-called ‘normal’ people of Paris who would speak of his and Madellaine’s growing increasingly warm friendship with a sense of horror and scandal.

It would paint the church in a negative light unless Darius were to leave behind this life he’d made for himself, and he was sure to be approached at some point by some concerned citizen if he was really following the course of wisdom by taking up with her, a lowborn woman with no real future for herself outside of being a thief for the king of the street rats. People would talk.

They _always_ did.

If anyone could understand the gnawing, lingering effects of grief, Quasi could.

When Esmeralda had died, it felt to him as though a part of his mind, his heart, and entire being had died alongside him. If he’d not had Belle stumble into his life when he had, Quasi might have wallowed indefinitely in his own despair until his own grief was sure to have killed him.

As it was, his wife was his life. Yet, he understood grief. Perhaps better than most. If Darius ever wanted to unload his burdens, Quasi made a silent vow to listen to his friend and above all else, not judge the man for the choices Darius made in life.

That was _not_ his job. And thank God for that. Quasi did not consider himself an expert when it came to love, far from it, but… But he’d been around Belle long enough to know the signs by now. The man was positively smitten around Madellaine de Barreau. In his defense, he’d not seen it coming at all for Darius.

Father Darius would oftentimes get several interested glances from women his age and younger that came for Mass and Vespers, though, at least from what he would tell Quasi over their weekly gatherings in his tower for chess and wine, he would have no choice but to coldly rebuff their interests. He knew his friend had been married once now, a long time ago, his wife dead now.

But Madellaine, of all the women in Paris? Of course, Quasi was in no way shape, or form disappointed with the priest’s choice.

Anyone meeting Darius’s incredibly high standards would have to be an uncommonly kind woman and beautiful, though he was afraid for the young woman that the man would inadvertently try to compare her to his wife and leave the poor girl heartbroken.

Madellaine de Barreau was most assuredly all of those things, Quasimodo decided, though not having known the young woman long. But he’d watched her work diligently and quickly to save Belle’s life, and the fact remained that she was eager and willing to provide a sense of female companionship in his wife’s life meant more to him than anything else. Quasi wanted Belle to have another woman in this city with which she could be friends.

There wasn’t a cruel or selfish bone in Madellaine’s body. The young woman was beautiful. Quasi could only imagine the stares of other young French men in the streets of the marketplace whenever the girl would meander about the town.

There was surely only one thing on their minds when they looked at her, though in stark contrast to those boys’ shameless appraisal, Quasi felt confident that his friend would only look on Madellaine with gratitude and profound respect, and that was it. That was the root of the problem. The girl has _no_ _idea_ of her feelings for him. Quasi wondered if Darius was even aware.

“I’m not so sure, sweetheart,” he murmured, earning a raised brow in alarm from his wife as Belle turned to look at him.

Belle stared somberly at her husband as his grip around her waist slackened. There was a hint of caution in Quasi’s eyes, which strangely resembled that of Darius for a moment, she knew. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I—I don’t understand…”

Quasi shot her a pained but pointed look as he instinctively reached for her hand and gave it a slight but loving little squeeze.

“I don’t think…” He paused, searching for the right words before he eventually found his voice. “I don’t know that Darius has ever really fallen in love before. Oh, he loved his wife, I know, but not like…not like _this_ ,” he wondered out loud. “The fact that in all my years here in the church that I've known him and been friends with the man, I’ve _never_ seen him care so much about a woman like her to allow her to come up here to the South bell tower, much less means that Barreau shouldn’t treat our friend’s attention lightly, however she might feel about him. They’re anything _but_ insincere. I just don’t want her to get hurt.”

Belle nodded in understanding, though she sighed deeply and shook her head.

“Well. I’ll pray for them. I hope that they can both find some small measure of peace, no matter what happens, and I think that since we’re their _friends_ , Quasi, we should be there for them, don’t you agree?” she murmured, a note of determination and resolve laced throughout her voice.

He nodded his agreement, looking like he still wanted to argue, though thought better of it, and clamped his mouth shut. She parted her lips open to speak, though was interrupted as a small wince of pain left her lips immediately.

She let out a tiny gasp, clutching at her side, growing weaker and more fatigued the longer she stayed out of bed.

For once, she did not protest as Quasi immediately took her by the arm and slowly but swiftly escorted her back to their bed, easing her back down onto the sheets, and then sitting beside her on the edge of their bed.

“Why did you get out of bed, love?” he admonished, concerned. He did not let Belle immediately answer but continued instead trying to comfort his hurting wife. “You are not to move a muscle.” He told Belle, sternness in his tenor-like tones. “That’s what _I’m_ here for.” He smiled as he reached behind and fluffed the pillow.

Belle regarded him rather woefully. “B—but I’m not used to just lying around,” Belle argued her case softly. “I—I should go and see if Darius needs any help,” she desperately entreated.

Quasi shook his head, taking Belle’s hand and holding it gently. “You need to _heal_ ,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles tenderly and held onto her hand tighter. “You won’t make Madellaine’s job of tending to you any easier if you’re constantly stressing your body, sweetheart. And Darius can handle her.”

“But I can’t _help_ it!” Belle protested, rolling her eyes loving as she rested her hands on the swell of her growing baby bump. “Inactivity is not in my nature, Quasi, a—and Madellaine’s a friend. If she’s _hurt_ , I want to do something to help her,” she said.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked so miserably at the bell ringer that Quasi could not help but chuckle a little at the frustrated expression currently contorted his pretty wife’s face.

“Let Darius take care of her. Besides,” he added, a playful grin snaking its way across his pale features, causing the strong features of his Roman-like features to allow Belle to become momentarily distracted as she focused on the best parts of his face, his strong features, good jawline, cheekbones, his smile, though she didn’t dwell on it too long as he continued speaking. “They aren’t going to realize the extent of their… _feelings_ if we constantly interrupt them,” Quasi joked, relieved to see her smile.

Though the frustrated expression on Belle’s face at being confined to her bed for a couple of days was irresistibly adorable.

Belle swatted Quasi’s bicep playfully and stuck her bottom lip out in a slight pout. “It’s not funny, love,” she scowled, hurt.

“I know,” he conceded, wrapping his arms gently around his wife. “It will only last a little while longer. I promise,” he said, holding Belle as tightly as he dared. How good it felt to hold her.

It had only seemed like a few precious days ago that he feared he might never hold onto his wife again. His entire world, thanks to Madellaine de Barreau and her efforts, had been restored to him, and because of their new friend, he’d hold Belle forever. As Quasi embraced Belle, he felt his wife shiver in his arms, her chest rising and falling forcefully. Pulling back from their tender embrace, Quasi studied her pale face worriedly.

She was crying. “Did I hurt you?” he pleaded desperately.

Belle sniffed and smiled at him through her tears rolling in steady tracts down her now-ashen cheeks as the color left her face. “No.” She stared at Quasi as though trying to memorize every detail, every imperfection, every flaw. “You didn’t hurt me,” she whispered in a small, meek voice that did not sound like her.

Quasi brought his fingers to her face and stroked her cheek, trying to ease whatever worried her. “What is it, love?”

Belle looked down and abruptly shook her head as if trying to force an unpleasant image from her mind, a dark curl tumbling in front of her face as she did so, though she quickly brushed it aside with one swipe of her thumb as she tossed her hair back.

His wife breathed deeply as she was able with her injured ribs caging her lungs. “When I…when I looked at you just now, I—I remembered something,” she explained in a hushed whisper. “When the Judge, when he…ran his blade through my side…”

Belle paused with a shuddering breath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as her face paled and turned a shade of green.

Quasi flinched, wondering if he needed to get the wooden basin he’d taken to keeping at the edge of their bed to handle Belle’s morning sickness, but she swallowed past a lump in her throat and slowly opened her eyes, turning to look at Quasimodo.

Quasi pulled Belle closer and wound his arms around her, rubbing comforting, soothing circles near the small of her back.

“When he—he stabbed me, I—I looked and saw you.” She brought her brimming, darkening eyes to his, large tears rolling down her cheeks. “All I could think of was I was glad you weren’t hurt, Quasi.” Belle clutched tightly onto his hands, as though fearful to let go for fear of never holding onto the man again. “I just realized h—how close I came…” Belle paused, not wanting to voice her fears in the event that they would become a reality.

Quasi put his finger to Belle’s lips, effectively stopping his wife from finishing her unbearable thought. “I _know_.” He nodded grimly. Now that Belle was safe, he could barely stand to acknowledge the confrontation with Frollo on the front steps of the cathedral that might have led to so much worse than it had. “But you’re all right now. You’re going to heal and be even stronger. And our baby is safe,” he willed her, his hand drifting down to settle on the growing swell of his wife’s stomach, smiling.

Belle stared even deeper into the bell ringer’s eyes and shook her head. “That’s _not_ what I meant, Quasi.” She brought her face closer to his, causing his breaths to stifle in his throat. “I realized how close I came to _losing_ you. I don’t think I could…”

Her pained darkened eyes showed the terror that his wife found in that thought. Quasi blinked, astounded even now by her. Belle had come dangerously close to death, to being ripped away from him, and yet it was his safety that concerned her most.

Quasi closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, exhaling slowly, willing his heart to not leap up into his throat.

“I swear, Belle. You will _never_ lose me. I _promise_ ,” he vowed to her as their lips met. “How did I get so lucky?” he whispered to himself as he nestled his head in the crook of her shoulder as he moved to lay back down on the bed beside her.

Belle rolled her eyes in jest, but enjoyed the compliment, reaching out to caress his jaw, though her lids were growing heavy as sleep threatened to consume her. “It's I who am the lucky one, love. There _is_ no one better than you,” she affirmed faintly, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

Before he could answer, she pressed her lips to his in a gentle but brief kiss before collapsing back against the pillows.

Quasi let out a content little sigh and cloaked his wife in his protective embrace and held her throughout the night. Softly, he whispered the things that he wanted to do with Belle when she was well again, places throughout the city they could take their babe, as the pair were lulled to sleep by the sound of the storm outside, not knowing that a storm of a _different_ kind was headed their way, as there were still forces who wished to keep them apart.


	54. A Connection

**CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE**

His favorite color...was the color of her hair. Damnation, had that…had that really just happened to her, then?

Madellaine felt like her mind was reeling as the priest’s confession rang in her pounding eardrums until all she heard was the rush of her own blood in her ears. She wanted to feel happy about it, and there was a small part of her that felt euphoric, but…

Another part of her harbored a small twinge of caution towards the handsome priest, not wanting to let herself get _too_ close. Darius Barret had built a life for himself here in the cathedral. And surely the man still mourned for his wife and child. She could not— _would_ not—interfere in any way. Madellaine wracked her brain for something to say but didn’t know what to say.

At this point, she felt a horrible sense of regret coupled with anger. Not for anything that she felt she had done wrong, really, but for the situation in general. She had not meant to upset Clopin, and she’d certainly not intended for poor Belle to get dragged into her mess, especially considering the young mademoiselle was still in a critical stage where her wounds were healing, and it was imperative she does not allow herself to become too taxed with stress. 

She was afraid she’d added to Belle’s stress. Darius glanced behind them briefly, cautiously, likely to be sure the slight noise they had made while climbing the stairwell to the towers didn’t rouse the bell ringer or his wife from their throes of sleep. Not that Quasi would mind if Madellaine stayed the night up here in the tower. It would be warmer than downstairs, and she was sure to be safer up here with him.

“This looks like a nice, safe spot for you, milady,” Darius offered with a small smile as he pulled open a wooden door that looked to lead to an empty spare storage room with a single, hard-looking cot and a blanket.

The room had a few shelves on other walls, and some wooden boxes and old, discarded stone statues of various saints’ heads littered the floor. It was more than a little unnerving, Madellaine thought, but considering the priest had saved her from Clopin’s anger, she supposed she ought not to complain too terribly much.

With an exhausted sigh, Madellaine followed the dark-haired, handsome priest into the room and gingerly set herself down on a bench that was pushed against the wall. Things did _not_ go at all how she had hoped.

By this point, Madellaine feared that Clopin would not forgive her, or by the time that he did come back, he would make good on his threat to forcefully drag her out, kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail if need be to have her.

She still felt hurt, and the fact that her master had been so unforgivably angry with her. Madellaine didn’t always care if people liked her or agreed with her actions, she _was_ a thief after all, but Clopin, given he was their king, was a man whose opinion of her really did matter, for, without the Court of Miracles, she had no roof over her head. No food. Feeling the man’s harsh hands hurt in more ways than one.

Madellaine felt regret for her actions. She supposed she could have done more to try to send word to one of Clopin’s people in the camps, but everything had happened so quickly, and she’d not really been given a fair shot.

As she sat on the bench, the girl looked down at her violently shaking hands, well, her good one that wasn’t currently dislocated, while Father Darius worked relatively quickly to light several candles through the room.

“These should warm the room up a little bit and give me a little light to see what it is that I’m dealing with,” Darius spoke in a comforting tone as he lit the last candle and turned back towards Madellaine, his brows knitted together in worry and concern, a muscle in his strong jaw twitching. He took a cautious half-step towards her, though he hesitated, biting down on his bottom lip, as though uncertain of the girl’s reaction.

“May I?” Darius asked hesitantly, his soothing voice kind and quiet as he knelt down in front of the young blonde and took Madellaine’s hands in his own, though he froze. The moment his hands slipped into hers, there was a spiraling warmth that he knew had nothing to do with the radiating heat emanating from the appendage that was the girl’s wrist. The moment his fingers curled around hers, he _felt_ it. A tiny, golden string connecting the two of them, invisible, though he swore he saw it, and a spiraling warmth, a pleasant buzz, that spread up his chest. Sister Alice downstairs, God bless her ornery soul, had told him what it was.

His _soulmate_. The thought was enough to plaster a quiet vibration under his skin. He was glad to have finally experienced it. His heart hammered inside of his chest, and he could tell by the pained look on Madellaine’s face that she hadn’t felt what he had just then, though he did not fault the young girl for that.

Darius knew she had to be in a considerable amount of pain with her broken wrist and God knew how many other injuries Clopin had inflicted upon her earlier a minute ago. When he spoke, his voice almost shook, though he swallowed down past the growing lump in his throat, forcing himself to stay calm.

Darius wanted to reach out his hand and offer some form of physical comfort to the terrified, trembling woman before him, but in no way did he want to scare her any further, so he kept his distance and continued speaking reassuring words.

“It’s all right. You’re _safe_. No one else will hurt you. I can promise you that,” he whispered soothingly. “He had a hard hold on you, Madellaine, didn’t he?” he said, his voice shaking in rage and ire at the thought of him _hurting_ this woman.

Madellaine still stared at her boots, as she often did whenever avoiding a topic of conversation that made her feel particularly uneasy. She felt so… _wretched_. She should have been _stronger_ than this.

She ought to have known talking to the Court’s king alone was a horrible idea. Even if Clopin was not disgusted by her actions of not immediately sending word back the minute they’d set foot back within the city’s limits, he certainly would have by Madellaine’s weakness. Thoughts of Maria.

“I…” she whispered, her voice cracking in a heartbreakingly weak voice before practically falling forward into the priest’s embrace in an awkward sort of half-hug. Madellaine, even injured as she was, very nearly knocked the flustered priest back, the element of surprise unbalancing Darius. Her cheek was scorching hot against the dip of his neck, and her grip, at least her arm that wasn’t injured, was tight, almost protective.

It took Darius a moment to understand what the bloody hell had just happened before hesitantly, awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her.

Darius’s heart leaped up into his throat, stifling any words of comfort his mind had prepared.

No one since Hanna had held him so close, though he’d caught several interested glances of their female parishioners when they’d come to pray for Vespers or the various Masses. But none of them were good enough. Not until…he swallowed, shoving aside the thought of how he had felt at peace the moment the blonde had walked through the door, looking like a work of art. He knelt in silence as Madellaine’s body shivered against his with hard sobs.

She did not raise her head, and Darius was glad of this, for sure would have seen his own blue eyes misting with unshed, wretched tears. The scent of lavender and rosewater clung to her being, filling Darius’s senses as his arms instinctively tightened, driven by a desire to protect.

He raised a quivering hand to the back of Madellaine’s hair, pressing in softly into the short blonde strands, hoping it would convey the words now stuck in his throat that his tongue now refused their release.

_I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise, love…_

Slowly, careful not to jostle her injured arm and trying to ignore the fighting feelings of guilt warring within his tormented mind that he really shouldn’t, he drew her closer, holding her gently and whispering inaudibly into her thick blonde tresses.

Her arms tightened around his back and in response, selfishly, his eyes slipped shut in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Madellaine sobbed into his shoulder until her tears tapered off to mere sniffles. Darius noticed she kept her broken wrist tucked safely against her breast. Darius didn’t know what to say or do for the girl. He felt disappointment, anger, and heartbreak all at once.

This should _not_ have happened. He should have refused to leave her side. Madellaine continued clinging desperately to the priest with her uninjured hand, as though desperate he would disappear from her sight. Her entire body shook with shuddering, hysterical sobs, and hysterical hitched breaths as they caught in her throat. Darius hugged her closer, hating and fighting against the mad beast within his chest, that was practically purring at having the girl so close, basking in the warmth she gave off, wishing he could bottle her radiant warmth and sunlight in a tiny glass vial and keep it close to his chest, right next to his heart.

She must have been so scared. Darius almost dreaded asking what else the king of slums had done to her behind the closed door of the cloister cell, as he knew any details would only succeed in breaking his heart. Of course, there was no way around it. He was going to have to pry more details out of her eventually, to be sure any injuries Madellaine had suffered were treated, but for right now, his first priority was to try to calm the girl down.

Madellaine de Barreau’s frantic, gasping breaths and sobs weren’t going to help the situation at all. She needed to stay calm.

If she _didn’t_ , he thought he might break down as well. It was just as much for his benefit as it was hers.

“It’s all right, Madellaine,” Darius attempted to reassure his companion as he rested his hand softly on the back of Madellaine’s head and held her close. He wasn’t entirely sure if her tears were a result of pain, fear, relief, or a combination of the three, or something else entirely. All the priest knew was that he wanted to take away whatever black, negative feelings were causing the young woman who’d saved Belle’s life so much hurt.

But she also needed to know that Darius would help her heal from whatever horrible torture Clopin had inflicted on his servant. A hot, searing rage coursed through his bloodstream, the soldier within him that had lain dormant for so many years snarled and growled and yelled his displeasure inside his mind.

He was half of a mind to track down the king of the slums and beat the man within an inch of his life and drag him back here and force him to grovel in front of the mademoiselle’s feet and beg for his life, though something within Darius told him that Madellaine would highly disapprove of a violent course of retribution, so he reluctantly shoved that thought to the back of his mind. Thankfully, his mind was pulled from such dark musings as the girl’s bruised shoulders shook as another choked sob, muffled by the priest’s shoulder, echoed through the room.

Her cries sounded so pained as her life crumbled between her fingertips. “F—Darius,” Madellaine managed to gasp out in pitiful whimpers between sobs and frantic, shaking breaths. If the young woman had intended to say more, she certainly didn’t get around to it, as more sobbing followed after.

“Y—you’re going to be alright,” Darius promised, moving his fingers through her shorn blonde locks, the mad beast within his chest secretly purring its pleasure at being so close to her, her hair felt so soft and smooth, and unbeknownst to the priest, his fingertips felt like fingertips of flame and lightning for her, leaving fiery sparks in their wakes as he ran his fingers through her hair.

Madellaine’s fingers curled into tight fists over the material of his habit as the girl clung to Darius so desperately, as though fearing the priest would vanish at any given moment and then Clopin would burst through the doors again and she would be left at the king’s mercy, and that thought, well, she didn’t like to think.

The pair sat like this for a few minutes, with the girl clinging to the priest as though letting go even just a little would result in her being left all alone with only her thoughts for company. And all Darius could do was offer gentle, reassuring words and a soft but secure embrace as she cried into his habit.

After a moment listening as her sobs finally tapered off into a light coughing fit as she fought it, swallowing a lump in her throat, Darius reluctantly pulled back and apart from their embrace, instantly missing the warmth, the fiery heat the girl gave off, wanting to throw a minor temper tantrum and hold her again, but he knew first and foremost, her injuries needed tending to.

Madellaine said nothing as Darius pushed up the sleeves of her dress gently as she remained silent, with the priest running his fingers gently over her wrists and forearms. “May I?” he asked, nodding towards the young blonde’s swollen, reddened wrist.

Madellaine hesitated, biting down on her bottom lip, looking down at her wrist and considering it for a moment, but finally offered her arm to the priest, very slowly, and albeit reluctantly. “I don’t know if it’s broken, but it does hurt, especially when I move it,” she whispered in a hushed, small, meek voice.

Darius blinked, finding it strange that Madellaine’s demeanor was turning around so quickly and so completely now.

Only minutes ago, she had sobbed into his chest as though completely devastated by all of this, and perhaps she was, and now she was speaking so calmly about her own injuries, as though she were telling a story of what had happened to someone else.

 _Perhaps living in Clopin’s Court of Miracles made her resilient_ , Darius’s mind offered helpfully in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “I should pop it back into place,” Darius suggested cautiously, carefully putting his fingers on Madellaine’s wrist, wincing at the heat the dislocated appendage was emanating.

“Ugh. I suppose this is probably going to _hurt_ ,” she guessed with a grimace, her pretty face twisting and contorting in anticipation. She’d probably never dislocated anything before this.

Darius nodded with a sympathetic smile, though it was pained.

“Yes,” he confessed, not wanting to lie to the blonde, “though no more than leaving it untreated.” Darius immediately set to work. “Try to relax and hold still,” he instructed, as he carefully placed his hands over her wrist. “This should be quick. Remember to breathe and stay still. Do you feel ready, love?” He felt and watched her give a start at the term of endearment that he’d accidentally let slip, though didn’t bother to correct himself.

Madellaine hesitated but nodded after a second. 

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and held her breath as the priest gripped her hand and as gently as possible pushed it back into place. She bit down on her bottom lip to stifle the pained scream that threatened to escape her lips, but it was no good as her wrist popped back into its socket and she screamed.

Panting and gasping short, ragged breaths, Darius waited to speak until her scream tapered off as tears slipped from the edges of her voices. “A day or two, and you’ll be good as new, though I wouldn’t move that wrist around too much if it can be avoided. The less you move it, then the faster it will heal, love.”

Madellaine nodded and offered a tiny shrug. “Th—thank you, Darius,” she gasped out with a sigh. She rolled her wrist to test it, though winced as a flaring hot pain shot up her arm and decided that Darius was right. She ought not to move it, then.

She rested her hands in her lap, noticing the priest’s hand hovering on her thigh, dangerously close to her uninjured hand.

Darius paused, biting at the wall of his cheek as he wracked his brain for something to talk about that would take the young woman’s mind off the pain of her wrist. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Madellaine, it should not have. I should have been there,” he murmured, noticing her strained expression.

As his hand moved of its own accord, no longer taking directions from his mind, his thumb brushed soothingly over the sensitive skin of her hand, brushing its way along a scar on the top of her first knuckle, the girl barely managed to keep from whimpering, and not from pain. As he ripped a section of an old rag with which to make bandages to wrap her hand, he began talking in his quiet voice, as if trying to distract her from the pain she was so obviously feeling.

“I know this doesn’t hold a candle to a broken bone, but I used to get splinters all the time as a young boy, in my hands. I had a particular habit of climbing as many trees as I possibly could. Anyway, my hands healed on their own, and they toughened up eventually. I doubt any splinters would get their way past these callouses,” he joked, adding a small self-deprecating little chuckle, though Madellaine was not at all fooled. He turned up his rough palms to show her his scars.

Something then within Madellaine clicked as she realized she had no reason to trust him. He’d been more than understanding and helpful, and so full of surprises and his wit.

She did not want to seem ungrateful that he had just popped her wrist back into place and held no interest in leaving her side for the rest of the night. Without hesitation, Madellaine reached out and took his hands in hers, not seeing the jolt that flitted down his spine at the unexpected but not unwanted contact.

“I like your hands,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. He raised his gaze to hers, looking somewhat startled.

In the dim flickering candlelight, his angular, sharp German features are thrown into sharp relief, and for a moment, she saw the shadow of something dark flickering under the surface of the man’s crystalline blue eyes, though she dared not look away. She didn’t think she could even if she _wanted_ to.

“Oh, my dear sweet Lena,” he murmured in a low voice that was almost a growl, and her heart briefly soared at the nickname, though much to her disappointment and chagrin, he gingerly pulled his hands out of her grasp and ducked his head in shame. “You’d not like them at all if you knew what they had _done_.” He swallowed thickly past a lump in his throat. “You will hate me.”

“That is not true,” Madellaine told Darius firmly, a hardened hint of steel laced throughout her voice as a muscle in her jaw twitched. “You saved me tonight. And helped me save Belle’s life. I won’t ever _forget_ that. And neither should _you_.”

Darius shook his head wordlessly, burying his face with his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by a ragged gasp.

“I—I couldn’t _save_ her, and I’ll always care for her,” he choked out at last. “I should have,” he murmured as he felt Madellaine pull away from him slowly, her hands now resting limply in her lap. In the sheer intensity of his anguish, the priest did not notice the blank despair on the young woman’s own face.

Or the heartbreak of tears welling in her pale blue irises. Madellaine passed a hand quickly across her face, awkwardly clearing her throat. “Your wife, what was her name?” she asked.

The girl sounded as though she really didn’t want to press the issue with the priest, and yet, felt it imperative that she do so in order to let the man get it out into the open and feel his emotions. He let out a tired sounding sigh and his gaze slowly settled back to her as he swiveled his head to look at Madellaine.

“Hanna.” And just like that, the mere act of uttering his wife’s name brought back his deluge of memories like a flood.

His emotions, his pains, and the unbearable pain he had managed to repress the moment the Archdeacon presented him with the offer to stay and leave behind his life of violence and war came rushing back to him, rendering the poor man almost hysterical. Madellaine was at his side, holding one of his hands and urging him to tell her the truth, that he would feel better if he did. Almost against his own volition, he began to speak of Hanna.

He told her everything. Of how the young woman had offered him a single drink of water while his garrison was passing through the village, how enraptured he was by the young brunette, that such a feeling could surely only be love, then. The two had swiftly entered into a whirlwind courtship not long after, had married, and were pregnant.

Darius told Madellaine of the cold, consuming rage that flooded his veins the night Frollo’s soldiers broke into their simple home after Barret refused to disobey a direct order that would have resulted in an innocent family losing their lives.

He told her how one of his own men under his command raised his crossbow and shot an arrow into his arm and leg, the latter of which would result in him walking with a slight limp for the rest of his life, and how even as he grabbed the soldier and killed him, the young soldier no older than eighteen had laughed in his face. How he'd snapped the man's neck.

He told her how, during the assault on their house as it was raided as a punishment for insubordination, his wife had somehow vanished from right under his nose, and how by the time he noticed Hanna was missing, it was already too late.

He’d shouted his wife’s name until his voice was hoarse and gone. How he suddenly saw Frollo, standing outside of their home astride his damned black Friesian steed, his gaze fixed on something at his horse’s feet. How Darius followed him outside.

And how his heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach when he saw what had captured the infamous Judge’s attention. How he screamed and wept harder than he’d ever had in his life as he watched one of Frollo’s men plunge the tip of their blade into his pregnant wife’s stomach, ending their lives, _and_ his.

And he tells her how, afterward, several days later, after burying his wife and what was left of the babe in her womb, something within him snapped and shifted, shattering, never quite to be made whole again, and he tracked down every single soldier under Frollo’s command like the mad dog he was and lived up to the nickname he had earned in his career and destroyed them all until there was nothing left but their ashes.

Darius told Madellaine how, just as he had resigned himself to die of a broken heart on the front steps of Notre Dame, a gentle hand had touched him on the shoulder, and a voice, the Archdeacon’s voice, had invited him inside the church to start anew.

His words now spent as he stopped speaking, letting out a shuddering breath, a strange sensation began in his stomach. He suddenly felt… _better_. Curious to gauge the young blonde’s reaction, he glanced sideways out of the corner of his eyes towards Madellaine’s perch where she sat on the bench and was alarmed to see her crying.

 _Damn_ , he thought angrily to himself.

“Oh, no,” he said miserably, his face going careworn and forlorn at her heartbroken and horrified expression, realizing by now, she probably hated him, after all of his past that she had learned in the span of just a few minutes. “N—no, it’s… it’s all right, don’t cry, I shouldn’t have _said_ anything—” he started to say, though, without any warning, she threw herself into his arms, knocking the breath from his lungs and catching him completely off guard, startling the priest.

Stunning into a sense of petrified immobility, Darius Barret could simply stare, as now for the second time in one day, the girl wept into his shoulder, her hands clutching his habit.

“What happened to you was _not_ your fault, so don’t blame yourself? _Will_ you?” she asked, her soft voice sounding muffled.

Extraordinarily touched and amazed, he drew his arm around her shoulder and gave it a pat, his other hand resting in the back of her short blonde tresses, toying with them tenderly.

“I promise,” he murmured, shuddering as Madellaine buried her face in the crook of his neck, causing him to shiver as he felt her warm breath on his skin, goosebumps breaking out.

His body no longer taking directions from his own mind, though his mind was screaming at him to stop it before he did something he really regretted, he pulled the girl even closer, until Barreau was for all intents and purposes straddling his lap, his fingers gripping almost painfully tight on the fabric of her dress.

Her petite body settled against his hot flesh, growing bothered and aroused by her nearness, and yet, it felt _right_.

Her short blonde hair smelling of rosewater and lavender and eucalyptus. Darius found himself inhaling deeply, barely resisting the almost irresistible urge to bury his nose in her hair, needing more of that heady scent that almost physically ached as his chest constricted. His hands, which had previously been stroking her back, moved to sink themselves into her shaggy short chin-length layers, playing with the wisps and stray strands that framed her angular, oblong features. Good God, it felt _amazing_.

Finally, her sobs tapered off and Madellaine pulled away with a sheepish expression on her tear-stained, ashen face that still had a slight greyish tinge to it that Darius did not like at all.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured in a raspy whisper, wiping at her eyes with a well-practiced flick of her finger. At some point during their tender embrace, the sleeve of her ivory chemise underneath her dark green forest overdress had fallen away, slipping off of her left shoulder. Darius could not tear his clouding gaze away from the smooth, slightly freckled skin underneath it.

Darius shook his head vehemently, ashamed of his inexcusable behavior, wondering where this was coming from.

“No, _I’m_ the one who should apologize, Madellaine. I…I should not have told you all of that. _I_ am the one who’s at fault.”

But Madellaine shook her head and fixed the priest with a pointed look. “I’m glad that you did, Darius,” she murmured softly, unaware of how hearing his name emanate from her lips caused it to feel like his tongue had gone thick in his mouth. “And now that I know the truth, the full truth, it does not change my opinion of you, my friend. I still think you’re a wonderful person, and I hope that you never doubt that about yourself ever again.”

His chest tightened and constricted at her words, rendering him feeling unable to breathe and suddenly, rather light-headed.

His face felt hot, so unbearably _hot_ , his breaths caught and were short in his throat. Turning away, he busied himself with tightening the bandage on her hand, not noticing how badly his hands trembled.

“When I was a girl…” Madellaine started slowly, staring now not at Darius but instead at a spot on the wall behind his head, suddenly seeming uncomfortable and not wanting to meet his gaze. “…when I began studying under an old wise woman before my sister went to work for the Prince of these lands and our parents died of the fever, the old crone I studied under said I was not hard enough to mend even the simplest of cuts or God forbid, help a woman through childbirth.” Her blue eyes were now distant and glossy, as though lost in the past.

Darius said nothing but listened intently and carefully to every word. He had opened up to her about his past, and now, she was returning the favor, it seemed. She poured her painful memories out to the priest, glad to finally release them.

“To harden me, my—my sister, Maria, she gave me a new duty in the slaughter pen with the butcher in the village we lived in.” Madellaine swallowed hard but continued. “Mine was to slit the throats of all the piglets and the lambs.”

Madellaine closed her eyes as if the very thought were too disturbing to revisit. Seeing her pain, Father Darius stirred. He scooted closer on the bench to Madellaine, wanting to ease the young woman’s pain somehow, in whatever way he could.

She did not see his movement, but instead, carried on with her recollection. “How they cried and screamed. It was _awful_. I think my sobs were just as loud.” The girl stiffened instinctively. “I… by the end of my first day, I was covered in blood from head to toe.” Darius could see how the re-telling of her story was paining Madellaine. Her breaths were growing increasingly shallow, and she gasped as she spoke. “I had my dress burned,” she confessed in a whisper. Her face hardened after a moment to a proud stare. “But ever since that day, I’ve never hesitated to do what needs to be done if someone is hurting. I—I can _save_ them.”

Madellaine shook the image of the long-ago trauma from her mind, wanting to rid herself of the unpleasant memory.

Even as Darius smiled at the thought of the young mademoiselle’s bravery in the face of a truly unpleasant task, she looked away to hide the embarrassment on her cheeks. She had not meant to be so candid, to give so much of herself away to him. Understanding the girl’s discomfort, he laid his hand gently on her forearm. Darius wanted to tell her that he hated her sister that forced her to endure such torment as a little girl, wanting to tell her that he would find the people that did that to her and slit their throats if it would but make Madellaine smile at him again.

“I’m sorry they did that to you. Your sister was wrong,” he said quietly to her.

Her eyes glistening with stifled tears, Madellaine lifted her face to his to find the same sorrow at her torment within the man’s burning bright blue eyes. Part of her was feeling incredibly overwhelmed at his empathy for her was that all she wanted to do was lose herself in the deep blue pools of his eyes.

The part of her that won out in the end, however, was that which wanted to crawl away and hide, to sleep off the taxing events that her body had suffered. Madellaine quickly snapped herself back to her usual stoicism and hid her uncomfortable emotions just as quickly as she had allowed them to re-surface.

“W—well,” Madellaine announced uncomfortably, “i—it’s late, a—and I’ve kept you up longer than I ought to have, Darius. We’d both better get some sleep. Th—thank you for…for telling me, a—and for listening,” she cringed, hating out she sounded like she was babbling again. She really _was_ a stupid girl at times. “You’re a _good_ man, Darius. With a pure, _pure_ heart. I only that one day, you can see it for yourself, just as _I_ do, monsieur.”

Madellaine paused, searching for something else to say, though before her resolve could falter and fail her yet again a second time in one night, she made up her mind. She wanted to.

As she leaned forward, Darius felt his pulse begin to quicken. His dark bangs tumbled in front of his eyes, but with one swift slide of the girl’s thumb, it was brushed out of the way. Looking into her eyes, Darius saw deep pools of blue that displayed Barreau’s very soul, so innocent, and pure, yet hardened by life. Her lips touched his cheek. Time felt like it came to a halt. His breaths caught in his throat as their fingers locked together, almost a perfect fit, that tiny invisible golden thread connecting the two of them. As the soft skin of the girl’s mouth left the side of his face, the exact spot where they had come into contact tingled and burned. A hot blazing fire pulsated through his entire body.

A tiny grin crept onto his face and his cheeks painted themselves rose red. He pulled away silently, but their eyes stayed locked, having a private conversation of their own, hidden away from the rest of the world. He swallowed hard.

“I—I should let you sleep. Good night, Madellaine,” he said as the blonde offered him a tiny smile that rendered his heart feeling weak in his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how his legs worked though he turned on his heels as Madellaine turned away to head to the spare cot and settle in for the night to hopefully get to sleep.

Knitting his shaking fingers as he closed the door behind him, he slumped against the cold stone wall as he felt the strength in his legs leave him as he rested against the door, exhausted and dead on his feet, but lacked the strength to return downstairs to the dormitories. Darius didn’t think he could help it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Madellaine de Barreau. He could not seem to get the blonde out of his head. Madellaine’s short, choppy blonde hair fell in layers and wisps and stray strands to her chin, the color of the sunlight mixed with flecks of butterscotch gave her complexion some warmth rather than fading it out.

Madellaine’s clear greyish blue eyes so strikingly like his. Her adorable freckles dusted along the bridge of her slender cute little noise. Her lovely smooth shoulders. Madellaine’s warmth. Her scent. Her bright, shining white smile.

Her sitting in his lap, awakening aroused feelings that had been dormant for so long. Her lips pressed against his cheek, coming dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. How he had desperately resisted the urge to kiss her right there and then, how he had almost failed.

Darius groaned, carding his fingers through his thick tuft of dark hair.

“Not _again_ ,” he whispered, feeling a tightness in his chest. Darius sat against the door of the spare room he’d brought her to, considering what he’d learned of Barreau from their short conversation, suddenly wishing Sister Alice were up and if she would mind if he indulged in some of her wine from the ports.

What he wouldn’t give for a drink. Maybe it would quell the burning in his cheeks from where they still tingled from where she kissed him. He felt that he was already growing fond of Madellaine, perhaps even growing to love her, more than he could imagine, and yet every piece that added to the story of this incredible woman on the other side of the closed-door made him like her even more for it. And despite this, something fought it.

Darius wasn’t sure how it was possible, that total perfection could be improved upon. But Madellaine de Barreau seemed to know some…magic secret, because every time the priest laid eyes on her, it felt like he was rendered breathless and his heart would surely burst every time her smile was directed towards him, then.

Then, there it was, the thing that he had wanted most, now essentially being handed to him more or less. Darius had hoped that Madellaine would fall in love with him, though she’d barely said a word to him until tonight, and then earlier when he’d hit his head on the pillar-like a _fool_. He cringed at the memory.

How was he going to win her over when she wouldn’t even speak to him? Darius sat on the cold ground, lost in his mind until the soft rhythmic sound of Madellaine’s breathing from behind the closed doors eased the handsome priest from his pondering and dark, swirling vortex of clouded thoughts of lust.

Before he could stop himself, he shakily rose to his feet and opened the door, wincing as the old wooden door creaked in its hinges, though Madellaine did not wake, already fast asleep. Sleep would not come for Darius, however, as he reclined against the wall and slumped to the floor, crossing his arms against his chest and studied the young blonde with a sharp eye.

Barreau looked every bit an angel lying there fast asleep, her features bathed by the soft candlelight that shone inside her temporary refuge for the night. She’d not bothered to remove her dress, though the outline of the young woman’s breasts caught his eye. The petite little blonde healer was not well endowed in that feature, but Darius could just tell by her outline, she was perfect.

He allowed himself to indulge in the sinful pleasures of exploring every crevice of Barreau’s body, to feel her lips move in sync with his in a kiss. He wanted nothing more than to be beside her, holding her in his arms. His body inappropriately began to react to the thoughts of the young woman he was now staring at, and the priest forced himself to lose his imaginings of the woman.

Darius was glad Madellaine had shared her memory with him earlier. It was painful, but at least it was a connection.

Perhaps it was something to build up. He couldn’t help but wonder what other experiences had shaped her life to harden her.

Filling his mind with peaceful images of what a life with her could look like, he rested back against the wall, not even feeling the cold stone of the wall dig into the back of his habit, and finally fell into a deep sleep, feeling warm and content just to be in the radiating blonde’s presence. The man enjoyed the first tranquil sleep he had known in ages, not haunted by his nightmares, by the silver-haired demon of the Judge’s imposing figure that lay in wait to murder his wife.

For the first time in a long time, Darius Barret as he closed his eyes, did not dream of Hanna. No.

Instead, he dreamed of Madellaine de Barreau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice Dariline moment. The drama with these two is only just getting started though their relationship will develop and is coming, I promise :) The next chapter should be a sweet one as Quasi and Darius have a much-needed "Come to Jesus" conversation about a certain someone's feeling for a young blonde woman :)


	55. A Piece of Advice

**CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR**

Madellaine felt free, happy, and light as a feather. Was she floating? No, it was only the breeze of the meadows back home in her family’s village in Saint Paul de Vence. It enveloped her like a soft blanket. It played with her blonde strands and brushed against her flushed cheek, tousling the skirts of her simple dress.

Her hand was warm. It was wrapped in Darius’s strong, protective grasp. Sighing contentedly, Madellaine stopped along the familiar path on which they walked. She knew this place well. They were on the meadow she’d picked wildflowers at as a child. Madellaine had always been happy here, it brought her back to a happier time in her life, before her parents were dead, before Maria left to work under the Prince’s employment and changed.

Leaning back against Darius’s slender but muscular chest, she felt his arm encircle around her waist and pull her to him.

Madellaine squirmed and turned in his ironclad grasp, their blue eyes finally locking and holding one another’s gazes.

She smiled longingly at the man, and he met her invitation with a passionate kiss. She let him, encouraged it as it happened, wanting the man to explore every inch of her tingling skin as his fingertips left trails of flame in their wake.

It was just them and only them, alone together in the luscious meadow, and she wanted him, needed him, though the moment his hands started shifting underneath the skirts of her dress as she felt herself being lowered to the ground, the terrified girl bolted from her sleep, gasping, searching for breath.

The sudden rush of blood to her brain as she sat upright on the little cot made her head spin. Dizzy, and now staring straight ahead into the darkness, Madellaine was half-awake, half still in the dream.

After a few moments, her initial shock wore off and the realization that it had only been a dream dawned on her. Her breaths slowly regulated back to normal, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Steadying herself, she stood deliberately and carefully, mindful not to move her injured hand too much and disrupt the bandage that Darius made for her.

She was grateful that the only light that was thrown into the little room that she had taken shelter in for the night was cast by the dying fire. Madellaine was glad for that. It made her personal embarrassment feel somehow much more bearable.

Though, an illogical part of her overactive imagination, she felt as though the stone walls of this cathedral had eyes and ears, and with just one look and listen, the whole of Notre Dame would know of her private thoughts and her dream about Darius Barret.

That _he_ would know. “It was only a _dream_ ,” she breathed shakily, knitting her fingers together. As for her shocking partner in the dream, Madellaine worked hard to justify Darius’s appearance in her imagination as simply her mind playing tricks on her. He’d been by her side almost unfailingly whilst helping Belle to heal and had been present in her thoughts since last night. She was going to be spending at least the next couple of days in his, Quasimodo, and Belle’s company until she gave the young pregnant mademoiselle a clean bill of health, and then Clopin was sure to come back for her, though she didn’t want him.

She had probably been wondering about that concept as she had drifted off, but…but…oh _God_ … Lost in her thoughts again, the young blonde stood staring at the flickering candle flame as it snuffed out. Madellaine had managed to calm the worst of her shock, and her racing heartbeats had slowed down.

The girl created a story plausible enough for her own mind to accept the inappropriate dalliances of her dream from last night. Seemingly slipping into a comfortable, relaxed state from her unconscious rationalization, her mind, much to her chagrin, slipped back unbidden to the events that had played out there.

She could still see the meadow the two of them had laid in, she could almost feel his fingers running their way through her hair. This time, she imagined another long, soft kiss from the man, his hand trailing further…a little further. She blinked.

When the girl came to herself, Madellaine was surprised to find herself actually breathing heavily, and biting her lower lip.

Her hand was still clutching a fistful of her dark green forest overdress she wore over the top of her short-sleeved ivory chemise, now bunched in her hand, and pulled tight over her hips.

Madellaine gritted her teeth, forcefully shaking her head.

“Stop it! You’re being _ridiculous_ ,” she ordered herself, lowering her hands and smoothing the skirts of her dress. Her embarrassment quickly gave way to anger. Briefly, she wondered what the lady Belle would think, if the young mademoiselle could see her like this, if her new friend would have any advice for her.

Madellaine de Barreau turned in a fit of wrath from the still-flickering candle, though something else caught her eye that made her breaths catch in her throat. The same flower that she had spotted Father Darius holding in his hands a night or two ago was now perched near the lighted candle in a simple clay vase, a pristine beautiful white lily, bent at the edges slightly, but pretty, nonetheless.

The young woman stared at the delicate little thing, reaching out a hand to caress the soft petals, smooth against her rough, calloused pads of her fingertips. She felt strangely foolish, and powerless against her own thoughts.

This couldn’t happen. She could not let it.

“For god’s sake, the man’s a _priest_!” she whispered, horrified, as she raked her fingers through her short blonde tresses, doing her best to smooth down any flyaways. Madellaine tried in vain to shove her emotions more to the pit of her stomach and gingerly stepped out of the spare cloister cell.

The rumpled blankets and now snuffed-out candleflame were the only things left in the spare room as witnesses to her weakness, alongside the beautiful white lily Darius had given her.

The sister of Maria de Barreau walked swiftly down the south bell tower steps and towards the kitchens, not anticipating that the three of them would already be there, especially not Darius, who was holding a heavily laden breakfast tray in his hands. Quasi and Belle were resting against the wall while Belle absentmindedly munched on an apple, though seemed to immediately perk up upon seeing Madellaine awkwardly enter.

It was obvious the three of them had been talking and most probably about her since the conversation immediately went quiet the moment she strode in, which made her feel uneasy.

“Madellaine!” Belle chirped happily, greeting her with a cordial smile. “You’re looking much better. Are you feeling well?”

“Much, but I—I should be asking after you. Your bandages, milady, they will need changing and I will need to apply a fresh poultice.” Madellaine nodded, as if to emphasize her point, rolled her newly mended wrist to crack it, though her gaze drifted towards Darius who straightened and gave the girl a wide smile.

“Good morning, milady,” he grinned. “Did you sleep well?”

Madellaine gave a start at the priest’s question. What had Darius meant by that? Did he…did they _know_ about her dream? Surely not. Her cheeks flushed pink at the memory, though Madellaine quickly recovered, swallowing past a lump in her throat as she gave the handsome chap a nervous nod of her head.

Madellaine tried not to notice how Darius’s piercing blue eyes felt like they were burning a hole in front of her skull, or the amused little smirk he shot in Quasi and Belle’s direction, then.

“Y—yes, I—I _did_ , thank you,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly than she would have liked and bolted out of the room before either one of them could say anything, not bothering to look behind her at Father Darius’s hurt, offended expression.

Belle let out a tired sigh and wriggled her way out of her husband’s strong, ironclad grasp, though not before shifting at the waist slightly and leaning up on her tiptoes to give the tall man a kiss on the cheek. “Stay here,” she mumbled, speaking more to Darius at the moment than Quasi. “I should go check on her.”

Darius looked like he wanted to open his mouth to protest, though thought better of it when he fell scrutiny to a withering look from their bell ringer. He let out a sigh and relented. Belle, satisfied that Quasi would look after their mutual friend, gave a tiny incline of her head and without so much as another word, turned on the heels of her boots and followed her friend out of the kitchens and down the corridor, hoping to catch up to Madellaine.

Sighing wearily, Quasi glanced at the priest out of the corner of his eye. He himself knew he was the last person to be dolling out this sort of advice, as he still, even with Belle in his life as his wife now, considered himself quite inexperienced in the ways of love, though Belle was teaching him fast enough, he knew.

But it was evident there was no one _else_ that Barret was going to get it from, so it might as well be _him_. He let out another groan and carded his fingers nervously through his red hair. But Good Lord Above helps him, he was going to _hate_ this.

Quasi blew out a deep breath before continuing as he searched his words for something to say, with no clue where to start at all now.

“Do you think she’ll make you happy?” Quasi asked, cringing at the brazen, bluntness of his question, though knowing there was no other way around what was sure to be an awkward and perhaps even unpleasant conversation for Darius as the two men resolved to work together to uncover the nature of his feelings.

He watched, biting the wall of his cheek as Darius blinked, the words hitting him square in the chest as though he were being stoned. He swiveled his head to meet Quasi’s gaze.

“I…I don’t _want_ to talk about _her_ ,” Darius replied reluctantly, trying to keep his voice as neutral and level as possible as he felt Quasi kick over a chair and bade him sit down.

It was the last thing that he honestly wanted to do right now. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to follow in Belle’s footsteps and ascertain if he had _done_ something, _said_ something to offend Madellaine just now, why she’d fled from him in terror.

Darius felt a muscle in his jaw twitch as he turned away, though his friend was not so easily fooled. Though the priest did not so much as move a muscle, Darius felt his cheeks begin to burn with scorching heat and his eyes darting about the kitchens somewhat nervously.

Their cathedral’s bell ringer was a sharp, inquisitive man due to the former Judge’s teachings, and as a result of this, was known not to miss a trick and the priest knew the boy was noticing the man’s sudden shift in his countenance.

“Belle and I want to _help_ you, Darius, if you’ll let me get a word in edgewise,” Quasi began, feeling quite confident that he was sure he had never been placed in a more awkward position than this, as he studied the older man’s dark circles under his lids.

It was evident Darius had not slept. Darius let out a sigh as he wondered what to say to the church’s bell ringer in response. Simply put, he was quite certain he’d made a mistake last night in allowing the girl to kiss his cheek, now that he had spent over half the night ruminating on it.

That was his _first_ mistake.

He’d almost kissed her, had the girl practically straddled onto his lap, running his fingers through her hair, and loving it.

_Second_ mistake. Not sparing the bell ringer so much as a second glance, he looked instead at a spot on the wall behind him as he slumped back against the wooden chair that he was seated in. Darius let out a sigh of despair. By God, if the expression on Madellaine’s face when he’d absentmindedly pulled her onto his lap didn’t state the obvious, then he didn’t know _what_ would.

Third mistake. There could be no doubt of it in his mind now, judging, by the way, the young blonde pretty little belle had practically fled the room from him just now. Madellaine de Barreau must know by now that he, at the least, felt _something_.

There had been that moment when their fingers had intertwined together, and he’d sworn he could see and feel the tiny golden thread connecting the two of them together forever.

Surely, the girl knew that what he felt for her was…was…Darius almost had to throttle his urge to roar like an enraged dragon as he didn’t know _what_ the emotion was, but _whatever_ it was, he knew it was sure to create problems for her.

The priest gritted his teeth together in frustration as he pulled his fingers through his hair roughly, tugging on locks of his hair so hard that he swore he felt the roots scream in protest.

He wondered what the seven bloody hells he did wrong and said as much, surprised to hear himself confess it in a hoarse voice to Quasi, who was patiently waiting for his older friend to speak, resting his face in his gloved hands while he straddled and sat in his chair backward in a rather relaxed and casual manner.

“I—I don’t know what I did _wrong_ , my friend,” he managed to gasp out in a low, disparaging moan, burying his head in his hands. “Have I…have I _said_ something, _done_ something to displease her? She could barely stomach to look at me, Quasi.”

Darius was still trying to work out in his mind what it was that had possessed him to divulge the full, unadulterated history of his past with Hanna to Madellaine last night, but he found that in doing so, a profound newfound peace had wallowed in his soul.

Not even Belle knew the whole truth as Madellaine had. It almost felt to him how he had needed to spill the entire truth in order to take the first steps to do what he had told her he would the night he’d run headfirst into the pillar and move on.

Darius could not recall ever feeling this… _alive_. And it started with last night, he could feel it, that tiny thread connecting the two of them. There was a part of him that had wondered if last night was a dream, how she had _hugged_ him, clung to him so desperately as though he were her lifeline, and he’d _wanted_ to be.

He could recall with a painstaking clarity how it felt to hold the young woman in his arms tightly, not wanting to let her go. The weight of her petite, slender body pressed against his searing flesh. The scent of rosewater and lavender in her short blonde hair. The horrible yet sweet, intoxicating ache in his heart, the feeble muscle within his chest now reduced to a quivering mess.

He did not want it to end, and yet it had. And he’d not slept and now this morning, given the way that Madellaine had practically fled from him in terror, a hot marring shame speckling on her cheeks, Darius was quite confident that she regretted it.

_But how to explain this to Quasi_? He paused, thinking.

For starters, Darius could hardly look at Barreau without feeling his pulse beginning to quicken or his heart rate accelerating. He knew it was wrong of him to feel this way, but he could not help missing the warmth that the young blonde gave off.

At first, Darius was ashamed for having such an inappropriate thought, considering what he was now, and then rebuked himself severely for it. What the hell was wrong with him? He had loved Hanna. Hanna had been his love, his wife.

Had he forgotten his wife so quickly? He would _always_ love her. Even thinking about another woman in this way felt like a betrayal to the one who he had once loved, would have been a father to their babe alongside her, had his sweet Hanna lived.

“But how can it be a _betrayal_ if she’s _dead_?” he whispered, not realizing he’d spoken it out loud until Quasi raised his brows.

“Darius, I suspect something is troubling you,” Quasi began, still staring at him critically, his blue eyes narrowing. As Darius turned to stare at the younger man, the priest found himself becoming quite flustered and rather uncomfortable as if he were being judged, and he decided that he did not like it.

“Why do you say that?” he barked, intrigued to know what his friend thought, cringing at how rough and grating he sounded.

“Because you have this look in your eyes, my friend,” the bell ringer spoke up, a note of minor impatience seeping its way to the surface of his voice as he was eager to get to the heart of the matter of what was burdening his and Belle’s friends this morn.

Darius scoffed and rolled his eyes. “ _What_ look?” he asked, feigning ignorance, though fearing Quasimodo already knew.

He cringed as he dared to look at the younger man out of the corner of his peripherals, not wanting to meet his gaze. Darius could tell by the way the boy’s blue eyes were narrowed. He _knew_.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer seated across from him rested his chin on his arms, which were leaning against the back of the chair’s backrest, and fixed the priest with a rather pointed glower.

“Do you _love_ her?” he asked, point-blank, to the point, never one was Quasi to beat around the bush when asking questions. Darius gave a start at the younger man’s question and had been about to open his mouth to vehemently deny it, to say no, that he could not possibly. But Madellaine, she was so kind.

She was _beautiful_ , and never once had she treated him any differently, even after she learned the truth of the things he had done. When he had confessed to her all of the horrible things he had done when he was a soldier, tracking down every single soldier that had been present the night his wife was murdered and gutting them, the girl had not looked at him in scorn or disgust.

He should have been a fool to think that Barreau could ever see him as anything more than just a friend. He was a clergyman.

Or at least, that was what Darius had persuaded himself to believe, while he and Notre Dame’s bell ringer sat alone in the kitchens, while Madellaine and Belle were off discussing who knows what.

_Probably me_ , Darius thought angrily to himself.

But God, what he wouldn’t give to be _more_ than just a friend. To fall asleep with her lying next to him, listening to the sound of her soft, rhythmic breaths lulling him to sleep, to wake up with her head firmly against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. To feel her warm lips pressed against his in a sweet kiss.

Darius’s eyes widened as he let out a low growl, shaking his head to rid his mind of the lustful images of the young woman.

_God! Why?!?_ Why did he insist on torturing himself like this?!? What could a man like him ever offer that girl, anyway? After a moment, the priest heard the bell ringer breathe out through his nose in annoyance. “You were just fine a moment ago when Madellaine was here, so why the shift in your attitude?”

Darius narrowed his eyes and hardened his gaze as he swiveled his head in Quasimodo’s direction. “ _Don’t_ ,” he growled, a low warning edge to his voice. “Please don’t start this, my friend. You—you wouldn’t understand,” he snapped, feeling the edges of his voice harden as he could feel the beast within start to emerge.

“Then tell me what it is that I’m missing or that I don’t understand, Darius, because I’m your friend, aren’t I? I—we, th—that is, Belle and I, we want to help you, but you must understand that without you divulging at least some of the details, then we can’t help,” Quasi protested, throwing up his arms in exasperation and looking towards the doorway of the kitchens that his wife and the young blonde had vacated not long ago. “You _like_ her. Don’t try to tell me or Belle that you _don’t_ because we _know_ that you do. You’re hiding it from yourself. What’s the matter with wanting to put your old life behind you and start over? We want you to be happy.”

He illustrated his disapproval by furrowing his brows and huffing in frustration, folding his strong arms across his chest.

Trying to ignore the rapidly rising blush creeping its way up to his neck, Darius abruptly shook his head, though just the mention of Madellaine’s name in his mind caused his neck to sting with heat.

“That woman outside with your wife is…just a _friend_ ,” he said firmly in a hardened voice, not sure whom it was he was trying to convince at the moment, the younger man or himself. “She is quickly becoming a good friend but nothing _more_ and nothing _less_ than that, Quasi. And I don’t want to hear any more of this _nonsense_ , because that’s exactly what it is, Quasi.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Quasi shrugged, hardening his own facial features and his voice in response to the priest’s sudden display of aggression. He paused, letting out a haggard breath, turning away for a moment to look at the door. He hoped Belle was having more luck in getting the young blonde thief of Clopin’s to see sense than he was having with their priest. It was increasingly frustrating.

He paused, biting down on his bottom lip, recognizing that Darius was point-black refusing to meet his quizzical gaze, but that was more than enough of a confirmation for the bell ringer.

Quasi could see it in the priest’s eyes. He did care for her, though it was going to be up to him to discover it for himself.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer groaned and rose to his feet, kicking aside the chair he’d been sitting in, recognizing he’d have to ring for morning Mass soon enough, but wanted to leave his friend with this one piece of advice. “If I could give you one piece of advice?” he questioned hesitantly, not sure it would be well received what he was about to say to their priest and friend.

Darius merely grunted wordlessly in response, though he realized he could not ignore Quasi forever and shrugged his shoulders as he turned to look at the bell ringer. “Sure.” His voice was cold and hardened, he recognized, but he couldn’t help it.

He was already grumpy as it was from lack of sleep, and the added little unexpected and almost fearful departure from the young woman was _not_ how he had wanted to start off his day.

Quasi sensed Darius’s reluctance and furrowed his brows. “I—I just think that you’ll want to hear what I have to say, Father.”

_Oh, I think I won’t_ , Darius thought bitterly to himself, but he grunted again and waved his hand in Quasi’s general direction as if to say to the man, “Get on with it and hurry up, won’t you?”

Though it took the handsome priest a moment before he realized he was suddenly aware that he had never quite felt so anxious to hear what their bell ringer had to say to him before.

“Don’t try to hide your emotions. If you’re _nervous_ , then let her _see_ that. I promise it will make her feel much more comfortable if she sees that you’re a nervous wreck as I think _she_ is too. Belle says women like to see honesty in a man as well as charm,” Quasi admitted, reaching up a hand to scratch at an itch behind his neck, before sheepishly lowering his hand to his side.

Quasi rolled his neck to crack it before doing the same thing to his wrists and heading out of the kitchens to prepare to ring for the morning Mass, though he paused in the doorway, one hand lingering on the door to steady himself. It was only when the younger man’s back was turned did Darius truly allow his shoulders to slump forward under the weight of his abject misery.

“I—I know I— _I’m_ the last one to talk about these kinds of things, but…I think Barreau likes you. Have you thought of just… _asking_ her?” he questioned, his innocent question floating through the air and piercing the priest’s heart like a rusted dagger.

Darius rose to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists as his stomach twisted painfully. “Don’t joke about that kind of thing, Quasi,” he snapped tightly as he averted the young red-haired bell ringer’s gaze, wildly searching for a distraction, anything at this point to ignore the fiery blush in his cheeks.

Quasi blinked owlishly at his friend and older confidante, feeling confident that he had misheard before the edges of his mouth twisted upward into something resembling a sympathetic yet sad smile as he shook his head to himself. “I’m _not_ joking, Darius. I wouldn’t do that to you, and neither would Belle.”

Darius could not remember the last time he felt so bloody confused. “Then…” He hesitated, biting down on his bottom lip unable, or perhaps unwilling to believe what it was he was hearing. “Then you certainly must be _mistaken_ , my old friend.”

Quasi’s posture straightened and stiffened as he made an odd little noise of disbelief at the back of his throat and turned sharply to regard the older, handsome man with a look of incredulity in his burning blue eyes. He was growing impatient. Notre Dame’s bell ringer rolled his eyes in exasperation, curling his gloved hands into fists.

“Surely, you can see it, Darius. Must I _really_ spell it out for you, my friend? Are you _blind_?” Quasi snapped, the briefest hints of anger seeping its way unbidden to the surface of his quiet, tenor-like tones.

He paused, considering his friend’s words. Oh, no. Surely…surely not. There had to be some kind of a _mistake_.

Darius recollected how flushed with color her cheeks had become last night, and even more so when he’d popped her wrist back into place. He remembered the way that she had looked at him as he had opened up to her. There was a nervous intensity glistening in her burning bright blue eyes, almost as though Madellaine were desperately trying to maintain her composure.

And he’d not been paying close enough attention, too preoccupied about telling her of his past, and how Hanna had—

_Hanna_. Darius felt his face drain of color. “Oh, my _God_ ,” he whispered, horrified, suddenly feeling his chest tighten and constrict. It would explain many things.

Why her mood seemed sullen and distracted this morning.

It explained why, not even fifteen minutes ago, Barreau had looked at him with hopeless and dull despair, as though her heart had been torn into two, why she could barely seem to stomach to look him in the eyes, much less remain under the same roof as him. It would explain why she had turned on her heels and fled from him so fast, leaving Belle to go after her to ensure that she was fine. It explained _everything_.

Darius swallowed down thickly past a lump in his throat.

“H—how _sure_ are you, Quasi?” he asked the bell ringer, fully aware if they didn’t wrap up this conversation and fast, he would make the younger man late to ring for morning Mass, but as far as Darius was concerned, their parishioners could bloody _wait_. This, in the priest’s mind at least, was more important.

Quasimodo hesitated, as if reluctant to give him an honest answer. “Belle and I can see it, Darius. Especially Belle,” he finally said quietly, his blue eyes sparkling with a quiet, subtle tenderness at the mention of his wife’s name, before he snapped himself out of it and returned his attention to the matter at hand: helping his friend, while at the same time not wanting to be late to ring for Mass. “We can see it, so why is it that you can’t, Darius? Why?”

“But…but…why would she ever… _me_?” he trailed off, feeling like his mind was reeling and rendering him feeling utterly lost.

Quasi shrugged helplessly, gesturing to himself by way of an example. “Why are you looking at _me_? Women are peculiar creatures, if we start trying to understand them now, we’ll only send our minds insane,” he chuckled, wiping his red bangs off his forehead and out of his eyes. “ _Trust_ me, I was just as surprised as you are when Belle…when she…when she said that she loved me. You have a chance, my friend, to put your past life behind you and start anew again, but only if you let it. And my advice? Don’t let her walk away from you. You could leave the priesthood behind.”

There was a long silence as Father Darius slowly nodded, and Quasi, satisfied that his friend was at a minimum, considering his words, politely mumbled a half-hearted, “You’re welcome,” under his breath as Darius tried to convey his thanks, though his speech seemed to be escaping him in stammers and short bursts.

He excused himself to go ring for morning Mass, leaving th the priest alone in the kitchens. Darius staggered towards the doorway, intent on turning left and heading in the direction that Madellaine and Belle had disappeared to, wanting to talk to her.

Though Darius took a moment and rested his forehead against the cold stone wall of the kitchens near the door.

The man did not know what to think or how to feel. He had assumed that after Hanna’s death, once he had joined Notre Dame as a brother, he would live out the remainder of his lonely existence in the church. He had not since Hanna’s death, prepared for _this_.

The very real possibility that he would love another woman, and it couldn’t be true, though against his better judgment, feeling like his feet were no longer taking directions from his own mind anymore, hardly daring to breathe, he stalked his way down the corridor, shoving his shaking hands into the pockets of his habit as he practically threw himself headlong down the same corridor that Madellaine and Belle had disappeared to, following the pathway in order to ensure that he caught up to the young woman who he suspected he was falling desperately and hopelessly in love with.


	56. A Moment Alone Interrupted

**CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE**

Belle was quite confident that she had never seen another young woman so flustered as Madellaine de Barreau was right now. Her blue eyes had a tender light in them that Belle recognized, having seen it for herself whenever she looked in a mirror, recognizing how fortunate she was to have Quasi in her life.

It did not take a scholar to recognize what that meant, though whether or not her new friend was aware of her feelings for the priest, she couldn’t say, though Belle perfectly intended to find out for herself. Arm in arm, the pair of women aimlessly walked along the stone bridge up on the upper level of the cathedral that connected the pair of identical bell towers, enjoying the breeze.

“So, what is it like?” Madellaine questioned, her head resting on Belle’s shoulder. Belle was a few inches taller than her.

Belle blinked, confused. “What is what like?” she asked.

“Well…you, being…married to a man you love. _Pregnant_. I hear your husband is _quite_ the charmer,” Madellaine commented, smiling at the light pink blush coloring her new friend’s cheeks that both women knew had absolutely nothing to do with the chill.

Belle smiled, an affectionate smile snaking its way along the edges of her lips as they curled upwards. “He is,” she replied, “On the right moods, my friend. As I’m sure Darius could be.”

_Here it goes_.

She knew there was no delicate way around the situation, and Belle’s suspicions were rewarded when the young woman immediately stiffened and almost let go of her arm.

Madellaine startled, blinking owlishly at the young brunette’s words, turning them over, mulling over it in her mind.

Darius had…had very nearly _kissed_ her last night. Not on her forehead or the back of her hand, but right on her lips. At the time, Madellaine was relieved that he successfully restrained himself. But now, as Madellaine wracked her brain for something to say to Belle, she found that she was coming up empty-handed.

Of course, for him to kiss her would have been out of the question. Utterly unthinkable. The man was a holy man, for god’s sake! Though as she and Belle stood leaning against the balustrade, overlooking the city here at the top of the world, Madellaine found herself thinking all sorts of improper thoughts.

Things which had never before crossed her mind about a man before. Like what he might taste like. Or whether his rough and calloused hands would feel smooth as they moved over the curves and crevices of her body. Or if his brilliantly white smile would ever be directed towards her and stay that way forever.

Madellaine felt her face burn in shame, but she couldn’t help it. She had never felt this way in her life about a man before.

“Madellaine, are you feeling all right?” asked Belle, startling the young blonde. “Your cheeks are all flushed and red.”

Madellaine awkwardly cleared her throat. “Ah, yes, Belle, I—I’m sorry I’m afraid I was woolgathering a moment. Couldn’t be better,” she said weakly, letting out a nervous albeit soft chuckle. Belle quirked a thin dark eyebrow her way and rested her elbows atop the balustrade’s railing, glancing sideways out of the corner of her eyes, wondering how best to approach the subject.

It was a sensitive topic of discussion, and she did not want to upset her new friend by divulging into the details of an experience that may or may not have made her uncomfortable last night but considering how the young woman who had saved her life could barely look their handsome priest in the eyes moments ago, it was apparent that something had happened last night, yes.

“You _couldn’t_ be, can you, my friend?” Belle asked.

“What?” Madellaine’s brows crumpled. Both shut their mouths and looked in completely separate directions as a pair of lay brothers lazily passed them by, inclining their heads towards the women and offering light, pleasant, “Bonjour’s!” to the bell ringer’s wife, that Belle only half-heartedly returned, wanting to maintain their topic of conversation steering in the right way.

As soon as the men were gone, Belle held onto her friend’s cheek with such concern, not liking how pale Madellaine was.

“You like him, don’t you. Is it…is it love?” Belle was almost smiling at her. Madellaine felt what little color that was left residing in her greyish tinged face promptly drain and since then fretted wildly. Madellaine neither knew how to laugh nor condemn the thought. Of course, she was not in love with Darius Barret.

It was not love, she began to torment herself. What had happened last night was a spur of the moment apathetic encounter.

The man had pulled her into such a warm embrace, her straddling his lap notwithstanding, simply because he wanted the comfort at having to relive the pain of telling the story of his poor wife over again. _I can’t take this anymore_ , the girl thought to herself. Her stomach felt twisted into knots and though Belle had swiped a loaf of bread and a small rind of cheese for the two of them to share, Madellaine felt at any minute she might vomit.

She wondered how the young woman in front of her managed to survive this—this _intolerable_ condition. She had heard Maria speak of the sensation whenever she was around Prince Adam, though Madellaine oft wondered if it was love.

Madellaine had always been a fairly level-headed young woman, not the type to be so easily led astray by her emotions. But as loathed and reluctant as she was to admit it, some feelings were more difficult to ignore than others. And her feelings had now become quite impossible for her to ignore, considering…

She tried. She tried desperately to ignore the little ridiculous flutter her heart would give any time Father Darius was near her, and the shortness of breath that rendered Madellaine feeling dizzy and quite light-headed every time the man laughed.

Madellaine wondered if she had finally gone insane. She did not understand how this could have happened to her.

She had never before felt this way about anyone, and it wasn’t for lack of choices either. There were plenty of interested young men throughout the Court of Miracles and the rest of the city besides, several of who had taken an interest in her at one time or another.

But the young blonde had never taken an interest in them. She sighed, resting her elbows on the balcony’s balustrade railing.

Yes, she concluded. She has _definitely_ lost it, she was sure.

“Madellaine, are you all right?” Blinking, the young blonde looked away from her pensive staring out at the City of Lovers and away from the strange image of the priest inside of her mind.

She had become quite unaware that Belle was now staring at her, with a rather perplexed expression on her face, her eyebrows knitted together in worry and concern for her friend.

“Yes,” Madellaine stammered, perhaps a little too quickly than she would have liked. “I—I’m fine,” she let out a squeak.

Belle nodded in response, and as Madellaine flinched and shot the young brunette mademoiselle a furtive, guilty look, she could tell the slightly older woman remained unconvinced of her.

After a while, she spoke again, sounding rather hesitant as she picked up of a tiny chunk of the bread loaf and nibbled at it.

“I—I hope I’m not intruding, Madellaine, but I saw that you looked…” Belle paused, biting the wall of her mouth as she swallowed the bite of bread, taking her time while she searched for the right words. “ _Upset_ ,” she finally managed at last. “Did something happen last night when you…when Darius escorted you to the south bell tower?” she questioned, her voice soft, quiet.

Madellaine opened her mouth to reply, but seeing the concern etched upon Belle’s face, realized that if her friend was willing to listen to her, that she trusted her enough and liked her enough to ask after her well-being, then it only served to say that Madellaine ought to return that trust and divulge to her the truth.

In truth, Madellaine tried in vain to put the events of last night from her mind. She hardly even knew what she would say to Darius if she bumped into the man in the cathedral. Not now…

“Ah, w—well…” she stammered, struggling to collect her thoughts. “The truth is, Belle,” Madellaine began, sounding more vulnerable than she had ever done in her entire life, “um, something…did sort of happen last night. Well. _Almost_. It—it wasn’t _supposed_ to happen. He…we…” But her voice cracked.

Belle stood silent, still resting her face in her hands, her elbows propped up on the balustrade railing, glancing out at the city, feigning interest in the goings-on of the bustling streets of Paris while at the same time glancing at Madellaine out of the corner of her peripherals, trying to gauge the woman’s reaction.

Instead of filling the awkward silence that lingered as Madellaine paused, she allowed the girl ample time to collect herself. Somehow, the bell ringer’s wife knew the young woman needed a moment and the space to gather her flustered thoughts.

Belle did not know how long the women stood in silence, though she was unable to stop the smile flitting across her features as the pealing and tolling of Notre Dame’s bells rang through the north bell towers and poured their flood of sound into the square.

Were she in the tower loft, sometimes, when Quasi would ring his bells, if she closed her eyes and strained her ears to listen, she could hear her husband’s tenor-like voice talking over the loud tolling of his brass and iron bells, coaxing them all to make the music that he so desired. It was a trait she loved in him.

“We were talking. He—he told of his past, of his…his wife,” Madellaine whispered. “He seemed to need the comfort and he…”

Again, Madellaine found herself at a loss for words, her breaths catching and quickening in her throat as her breathing had become labored and she saw yet again what had been circling within her mind since the little incident had happened. She could still feel Darius’s touch, his scent, feeling his fingers grip almost painfully tight on her waist, running his fingers through her hair.

The way he had _looked_ at her afterward, as though there was a minuscule part of himself, however small, that lingered within her.

Madellaine felt her blue eyes go wide and round at this thought, not at all sure what to think, though before she could open her mouth to speak, Belle’s sweet voice interjected, saving Madellaine Barreau the trouble of responding to her new friend.

“Did he kiss you?” Belle asked gently, though the intrigued part of her wished that her friend would simply state the obvious.

Shaking her head no, Madellaine looked down at her hands, which were wound tightly across the skirts of her dress.

“No, but he…he _almost_ did,” she whispered faintly.

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Belle, sounding saddened by this revelation, and yet her voice was also clipped as if she were trying to repress an emotion that was bothering her. Anger, perhaps, though Madellaine had no chance to dwell on it. “If I had been there by your side, perhaps I could have done something. Clearly, it was a distressing experience for you, Madellaine.”

Madellaine looked up, feeling gobsmacked and confused, to find the young brunette bell ringer’s wife staring at her fiercely, with a horrible contempt burning in her dark brown irises, darkening them even further until they were almost black in color; contempt which Madellaine, for a brief moment, mistook to be directed towards her, and the girl felt her face drain of color.

“It—it wasn’t distressing, Belle,” Madellaine quickly explained faintly as the woman’s expression shifted from one of anger to something that was admittedly much more relaxed, which Madellaine was grateful for. The girl did not want to stir up trouble, yet with the sickening knowledge from Clopin, if what he said was true, that Maria was really coming here to Notre Dame, then it seemed that she would have no choice in this matter.

Now it was Belle’s turn to blush as she slowly inclined her head and rested her hands comfortably over her slowly-swelling baby bump. “Oh, forgive me, my friend, I—I mean, you were speaking of what happened last night as if you were frightened.”

Madellaine quickly shook her head, afraid that her new friend had misunderstood her meaning, and Belle had just now.

“N—no, I—it wasn’t like that at all,” Madellaine, a tiny smile snaking its way across her features as she recollected the near burning intensity of the priest’s icy-blue gaze, how she seemed unable to pull her gaze away from staring into his eyes.

Madellaine had always believed that blue eyes were glacier cold and never shared warmth or love. But she had been wrong.

Now she knew. The hottest fires always burned blue. _Just like his eyes_ , she thought, a glossy look overcoming her own pale blue irises as she allowed her mind to dwell in the memory of what had almost happened before they’d come to their senses and Madellaine had begun to pull away from Darius then.

“You…did you want it to happen?” Belle prodded gently, hoping she wasn’t overstepping her boundaries by prying for more details into her new friend’s personal life. “You _did_ , yes?”

Madellaine’s smile broadened as she could hear the slight lilt in Belle’s voice. As embarrassing and painfully awkward as it was for her to speak of what had happened, Madellaine was relieved ultimately to feel as though a weight had lifted off of her shoulders. It was nice to have a woman her age to talk to about such things, especially one who was married and knew of these feelings that Madellaine was experiencing and struggling to deal with.

“Well, h—he was gentle at first, but then, he _wasn’t_ , and I found myself moving of my own accord, wanting to touch him more. It felt like someone _else_ was in control of my movements. I—it’s strange for me to speak of it in this way, but it’s the truth. It’s what I _felt_ ,” Madellaine said, casting a wary glance at Belle.

Belle was softly nodding her head as she listened to Madellaine and soon the girl was smiling from cheek to cheek.

“Well, if what you are telling me is true, then I’m happy for you both,” said Belle, and the older woman really did sound like she genuinely was happy for Madellaine. “And I’m sure Darius will be too, once he…once the two of you discuss it,” she said.

At her friend’s utterance, Madellaine’s head whiplashed sharply upward and looked towards her friend and all traces of a smile on Belle’s features quickly disappeared like water falling over rocks, and her face fell and became crestfallen and saddened.

“I—I’m not so sure, Belle,” Madellaine whispered, causing Belle to look concerned once more. “I—I don’t know if he _will_ be.”

Belle blinked at her new friend’s words, surprised by the sullen shift in the young woman’s normally bright disposition.

“What do you mean, Madellaine? I—I don’t understand…”

“Belle, I—” Madellaine started to say, her brows furrowed in contemplation, but her words were cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps, causing both women’s ears to perk up at the noise. Belle’s hearing had always been quite sharp, and right now, now that the bells had stopped ringing was no exception.

The sound of a few soldiers coming from down in the square below drowned out whatever Madellaine had been about to say next. The two women leaned over the balcony’s balustrade, their brows furrowed, and their lips pursed into thin lines, though they saw nothing, at least not at first.

Dismissing it as nothing, Belle let out a sigh, though her relieved sigh erupted into a startled squeak of surprise as she felt the tempered grip of the bell ringer’s hands snake across her middle and rest on her stomach.

“You’ve finished early,” Belle added, a slight teasing lilt to her voice as she craned her neck to plant a gentle kiss on his lips.

“I had a good reason to finish early. More time with you.”

The grin that crossed Quasi’s face was heartwarming, causing Belle’s heart to give a flutter before dropping to the pit of her stomach as she thought the man’s smile was a warm sunset.

Gentle, bright, and pure. Though by the time Belle swiveled her head back around from the embrace, the sadness and anger and confusion in Madellaine’s face had promptly returned again.

“Would he even want to see me after…?” she breathed, lowering her eyes, and tilting her head so that wisps of her hair concealed whatever expression she currently wore from Belle and Quasimodo, keeping her new friends from seeing her misery.

Quasi shared a brief but knowing glance with Belle. Pursing his lips and reluctantly parting from his embrace with his wife, he walked towards Madellaine and tilted her chin in his strong gloved hand, forcing the young blonde to meet his gaze.

He could see the fear that grazed her azure orbs as she tried to retreat from his suspicious behavior, but she wasn’t having it. “Do you know what makes a man like Darius Barret truly special?” Quasi muttered, a bitter edge to his voice that caused Belle’s heart to crack, though his wife remained silent. “He gave his friendship to a monster like me. He did not have to, but he did. He’s a kind man, Madellaine, I hope that you know that.”

Quasi noticed the small lump that bobbed down her throat, but pressed forward, wanting the woman who had saved Belle’s life to hear his words, and heed them and listen well. He continued.

“I—I done… _terrible_ things…to people, a—and yet,” here, his voice trembled as he swallowed down hard past a lump in his throat, briefly squeezing his eyes shut as visions of Esmeralda’s death flitted through the forefront of his mind, though he shoved aside his unhelpful thoughts, not wanting to relive the past.

Not when he had so much in the future these days with Belle to live for.

“He saw through I was to the man I could be. And know that if Darius could respect and able to form a friendship with a _devil_ as I am, then imagine how he’d treat an angel like you, Madellaine. Darius would be lucky and should consider himself such if he were…to choose you,” Quasi whispered.

Quasi knew his words had hit their mark judging by the way Belle’s new friend’s eyes widened at his words. Madellaine gave a start at the bell ringer’s words, though the moment she opened her mouth to speak, another barking shout coming from their immediate left quickly cut the girl off.

A prattling noise collectively hooked the trio’s attention from below where a small mass of unfamiliar soldiers had begun to accumulate. One was shouting out from in front of Notre Dame de Paris’s front steps, things that neither of them could decipher.

But from the looks of whatever was going on down there, it wasn’t looking at all good. The group could hear footsteps scraping from behind him. Darius was lightly jogging up the walkway, following close behind another one of the lay brothers.

Brother Paul was clutching at a stitch in his side and panting and gasping raggedly, ignoring the flustered looks of concern for the current state of his physical well-being by Quasimodo, Madellaine, Belle, and Father Darius, as he spoke.

It took him several tries to draw in sharp, ragged gasps of air before he could manage to string together a coherent sentence.

“M—milady,” he wheezed, glancing in Belle’s direction with red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes, his complexion going quite pale.

“What’s going _on_ down there?” Belle asked, a note of desperation creeping its way unbidden to the surface of her voice as she rested both of her hands on the balcony’s balustrade, daring to crane as far over the ledge as she dared, straining to see, despite her immeasurable fear of heights and being so high up.

“Uh,” the lay brother’s voice squeaked, “There’s a woman on the front steps, milady,” he said, lowering his voice an octave.

Quasi decided he did not like the sudden shift in the man’s already-skittish countenance.

He liked Brother Paul well enough, though for the man to barely be able to stomach looking either one of them in the eyes was disconcerting, to say the least, and he could no longer ignore the swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach. “And?” he growled, hating hearing the bite to his tone.

He was hardly aware of Belle shooting him an admonishing look that for the moment, the bell ringer chose to ignore it. He would deal with it later, but for now, he wanted to know why Brother Paul was holding such a vested interest in _his_ heaven’s light, his belle, his wife. Not that he was jealous, merely curious.

“She—she’s seeking an audience, monsieur,” Brother Paul gasped, his lungs burning for the biting cold, bitter Parisian air.

“Is she alone?” Darius questioned, his voice taking on a clipped and hardened tone, and if Belle wasn’t mistaken of her husband’s dear friend, a dark shadow flitted across the handsome man’s sharp and angular features, causing the woman to shiver.

“N—no, Father,” Brother Paul confessed, suddenly looking ashamed and painfully wringing his hands together out of a nervous habit, a sheen of sweat starting to throng on his temples. “She—the—the girl has two men with her, soldiers, judging by their coat of arms on their armor, and a hound by the looks of it.”

“And you cannot interrogate her without causing that much of a _ruckus_? What on earth does the mademoiselle _want_?” Darius questioned, taking a cautious step forward, his tone guarded, and his facial expression even more impassive, though Belle was not at all fooled as the handsome priest’s gaze flitted up to rest on Madellaine briefly for a moment, before the young blonde flushed and Madellaine de Barreau looked away, though not before a light pink blush snaked its way across her cheeks, flushing them high with color as the girl swallowed down hard.

“She uh, wanted to see the…the bell ringer’s _wife_ , Father,” Brother Paul stammered out, sweat starting to slide down the front and sides of his temples. He suddenly seemed to have trouble meeting Quasimodo’s gaze as the bell ringer’s facial expression turned from one to incredulous disbelief to anger.

Belle, immediately sensing danger from the moment she heard the low, threatening warning growl emitted from the confines of her husband’s broad chest, gingerly patted Quasi on the shoulder and bravely stepped forward, her chin held high.

“Does she have a name, this woman? Has anyone asked her who she is? Why does she want to speak with me, monsieur?” Belle asked calmly, hoping her voice remained calm in the hopes of rectifying whatever situation was going on down there and diffusing the tension between their group out here on the bridge.

Brother Paul shot Belle and Quasi a pained, apologetic look and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “She—she didn’t want to _say_ , milady,” he murmured.

Madellaine blinked, feeling as though her eyes had taken in too much light as she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling nauseous.

_Oh, God. Maria. She—she’s here early. But…how? Clopin told me I had at least four more days. How did she manage this?_

She did not like it. She didn’t like it at all. Had Clopin _lied_ to her, then, out of spite, to get back at her for not coming back?

Madellaine tried to force down the nauseous feelings but they just kept returning in full force.

The burning feeling in her stomach intensified as she looked over the balcony’s railing and swore she saw a familiar flash of yellow that could only belong to one woman. An icy cold chill proceeded to run up and down her spine. She felt as though someone had doused her in ice-water.

Again, what was _wrong_ with her? “Belle, I…there’s…” She felt dizzy, oh, god, so very _dizzy_. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision as the bridge’s floor began to feel unsteady beneath her feet and her legs went weak at the knees, starting to crumble.

Madellaine didn’t think she could keep her balance.

“Madellaine?” Darius’s voice barely reached her eardrums as Madellaine froze, a blast of nausea in her stomach made her skin shiver and left her with a horrible, fatigued ringing in her ears, leaving his last words to her inaudible. Her brows twitched as she looked at the handsome priest’s face, the skin of Darius’s brow pulled taut with worry and concern over her well-being.

Darius was already facing her, watching her, teeming with anticipation. “I…” she started to say but couldn’t form the words.

“What is it?” His voice came again, more desperate this time. Madellaine shivered as she felt the tempered strength of the man’s hand on her shoulders, and Quasi’s hand to her right, both men attempting to steady her in the event the girl felt rather faint.

Madellaine heard Belle and Quasi’s voices speaking to her, though she was struck with another horrible wave of queasiness that left almost half her brain unconscious. She thought she might retch, though remembered she’d not broken her fast this morning.

She could hear her anxious breaths quickening, and her knees trembled violently until one of them collapsed and she hit the ground, though Quasi was already standing behind her and caught her fall, gently lowering her to the ground and kneeling into a crouching position from behind her, Darius in the front.

The ringing on her ears was louder this time, almost deafening until it drowned out all other sounds, save for that.

“Madellaine? Talk to us, what’s—what’s happening?” Now Darius sounded like he was almost pleading with her to speak.

She could hear him again, but his voice was distant, faint, and muffled, as though speaking to her from underwater somehow. Madellaine shook her head, beads of sweat beginning to glitter on her scalp. Gathering enough strength on her throat, she managed a weak, answer. “No, I—it’s…it’s _Maria_ ,” she said.

Heat spasms dragged across her body, wave after wave as her vision blurred, leaving her unable to see Darius’s reaction to her revelation that the woman at the gate was her sister, though she knew Quasimodo and Belle weren’t aware of it.

Her vision quickly blurred, blackening at the edges and everything around her out on the bridge walkway seemed to revolve. Madellaine no longer could even hear herself speak, just the stillness of the ringing on her head and within her eardrums.

She just wanted it to bloody stop. Her poor stomach heaved a pressure she was so unfamiliar with, she let out a moan, turning her head to the side, and vomited, trying to avoid splashing poor Quasi’s boots with the forthcoming sick as her stomach heaved.

And then, before Madellaine could protest, she felt Darius’s strong-arm encircle her small waist and almost gently pressed her against him as another pair of strong arms, Quasi’s hands, pushed her forward, but gently, not roughly, for which she was thankful.

She could not even recall the priest moving to stand in front of her. He had magically appeared close somehow by her side. “Let me go….M-Maria…” Madellaine futilely shoved him.

Madellaine shoved at Darius’s chest, wanting to speak, to warn the others that no matter what, they needed to stay inside, that her older sister was deranged, out of her mind insane, and dangerous. She shoved the man’s chest, she was sure, strong, and harsh, she was sure. Though it all seemed futile as Darius was still clinging onto her like his own life depended on her, unmoved, and not flinching. Her breathing became filled with a raw, desperate panic.

_No. Please. No. Belle, Quasi, stay inside, no matter what…_

Her tongue felt thick and swollen and when she tried to speak it was like there was a gag on her mouth as she choked.

The last thing Madellaine saw before the wretched black dancing spots in her vision took over her line of sight completely was Darius’s face hovering dangerously close to hers as he wound one hand around the back of her head, pressing the side of her face on his shoulder, the other arm wound tightly around her waist. He was so worried about her that it almost made her sicker.

Madellaine wanted to tell him to leave her, not to worry about her, to not let Maria set one foot through the church doors.

Though she lacked the strength. His burning blue eyes were the last thing she chose to focus on before slipping into sleep. Belle watched, horrified, in dawning horror as the small woman’s light blue eyes flickered and then closed.

Her breaths, which had been coming in such rapid gasps, slowed to an almost barely noticeable pace and her face tinged another shade of grey. She was so absorbed in watching Madellaine’s rapidly declining health that she did not notice Quasi come up on her left.

“Follow us,” she commanded, a hardened edge to her voice, looking towards her husband for confirmation, who did not need to be told twice. Stepping swiftly past his wife, the bell ringer knelt into a crouch and gathered the young blonde bridal style in his arms, both of them ignoring the fleeting look of jealousy on the priest’s face at the gesture.

Quasi rolled his eyes to himself as he turned on the heels of his boots and carried the young woman without another word towards the same spare room in the south tower loft that Darius had set her in last night, kicking the door open with the heel of his boot and setting her down firmly on the makeshift bed’s cot once he’d crossed over the threshold of the room, Brother Paul trailing in a fit close behind their heels.

Once she was settled, Darius felt his emotions begin to catch up to him as he bolted forward and perched himself on the edge of the cot, a small noise of despair escaping past his throat.

He had no idea what to do as his mind drew a huge blank. Madellaine was the healer and medicinal expert among them, not him. Panic rose up in his throat, constricting and hollowing it until it felt as though he himself could not get in a good breath. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t the one to pass out next.

“Father, please listen, you _must_ stay calm.” Belle’s voice sounded faint and far away, and yet, within her voice was laced just a hardened hint of steel that told the priest he had to listen.

Darius could not tear his gaze away from Madellaine’s now ashen face, looking more greyish-tinged than a healthy color. A haze of fear and guilt threatened to consume him completely.

Why wasn’t he helping her? Why could he not move at all?

Belle knelt on the other side of the bed, a hand resting on Madellaine’s forehead as the other worked swiftly to feel her arms as well, looking for any signs of moisture or that fever was developing. When she had finished, Belle gave out a sigh of relief.

She lifted her head to meet the priest’s distraught, panic-filled face. “Father Darius, _please_ _listen_ to me,” Belle coaxed gently, trying to get Quasimodo’s friend’s attention. It was easier said than done in this case as Darius still hadn’t reacted to her at all. “Madellaine is going to be _fine_. She passed out from stress.”

With a horrible, numbing, painstaking slowness, the priest raised his eyes to meet the bell ringer’s wife. In the dim light of the spare room in the south tower loft, Belle could see how many colors the already pale priest had lost in his complexion. This little unexpected incident had shaken the poor fellow to his core.

“How is this _fine_ , Belle?” Darius growled as his words came out louder and sharper than they meant to, for the young brunette flinched away in surprise and hurt at the curtness of his voice.

Belle paused, hardening her own expression in response to his aggression, and replied in a clipped tone, “Because Madellaine is fine. You tended to her yourself last night and her health does not appear to be in any danger, at least not that I can see. She merely collapsed because her body became too overwhelmed and taxed from stress. She’ll wake up in an hour or so perfectly fine.”

_Stress_. Darius blinked, feeling quite certain he had misheard the young mademoiselle’s words. Stress caused _this_. Father Darius sharply turned his head back around to regard the young woman now lying on the cot. Already it would appear that some of her normal, but still quite pale, complexion had returned. Her skin had a healthier sheen to it. Her breaths had regulated back to something that resembled a normal rhythm. Darius hesitated before tentatively reaching out a hand to grasp Madellaine’s hand in his own, flinching at the heat it gave off. He was for a moment, awestruck at how small her hand was.

It seemed that everything had changed now. _Nothing_ was simple anymore. “Thank you, Belle,” he whispered hoarsely across the way to the bell ringer’s wife, who quickly shot him a sympathetic smile and conveyed a look with just her eyes that told the priest she did not need to thank you.

“You’re welcome, Darius.” Belle looked over at the young blonde who was now giving off the appearance of sleeping peacefully, as she was unstirred and unresponsive to their speech.

She let out a relieved breath as she slowly rose to her feet, one hand clasped over the swell of her baby bump as she turned her attention back towards Brother Paul, who was lingering awkwardly in the threshold of the door, still looking skittish.

“This woman wants to see me. What does she _want_?” she questioned, instinctively feeling her hand reach for Quasi’s the moment she felt her husband nudge to stand to her right side. She gave the man’s strong hand a light, reassuring squeeze while waiting for the lay brother to try to collect his frazzled mind.

Brother Paul appeared extremely hesitant as he nervously wrung his hands together, before he evidently found his voice and began to speak, all the while choosing to avoid Quasimodo’s gaze.

“She—she has an acquaintance of yours, milady, she says you know the man, says she'll kill him if you don't come out,” he confessed, whispering the knowledge like a hushed dirty secret.

Belle’s darkened and narrowed umber eyes widened in shock and horror as a horrible, churning dread crept up and down her spine.

Before she knew it, her legs were moving of their own volition as a gasp escaped her lips and she bolted out of the room and back the way she came, with Quasimodo and Darius at her heels, shouting and pleading with Belle to stop, but she couldn’t.

There was perhaps only one other person left alive that she could think of to be on remotely civil terms with, and if she had him… She looked down, only to fall back with a piercing scream.

“LeFou!”

Quasi bolted to his wife’s side, coming up behind her.

“What is it, sweetheart? What are you…?” The man trailed off when he followed Belle’s horrified, awestricken gaze. Down in the town square stood Madellaine de Barreau’s older sister with what appeared to be a soldier and a squire boy, a young one.

In front of her, his wrists bound together in a pair of fierce-looking iron-wrought manacles, stood a kneeling LeFou, held at knifepoint by the blade of Maria de Barreau’s own deadly weapon.


	57. Her Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long chapter is LONG! And I do apologize for that but there are a lot of POV's I wanted to cover now that stupid Maria has made her presence known. Rest assured the confrontation with the Beast/Prince IS coming and sooner than we think, but for now, I wanted to get these little segments out of the way first as there are a lot of characters to my story and a lot of moving parts, etc. I hope that you enjoy it! :)

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX**

LeFou struggled against the iron-wrought manacles that bound his wrists, trying in vain to find a way to break them without the Prince’s men noticing.

The cold, harsh metal dug deep into his skin, and he bit down hard on the scarf that had been tied around his mouth that was Maria’s and smelled sickeningly disgusting of rosewater and lavender coupled with the thick copper scent of blood and death and almost made him gag on it.

The slight movement drew the attention of the broad-shouldered soldier she’d brought along with her for protection, and the blonde noticed it as well.

Maria stiffened, pressing the tip of her knife against the thick column of his throat before giving his chains a harsh tug, though the cry that it elicited from his throat was muffled due to the scarf shoved inside of his mouth.

It had all happened so _fast_. He had assumed that they would have been traveling for at least another four days, which would have been more than enough time for him to try to come up with an escape plan and make an effort to warn Belle.

But all it had taken was the moment they stepped outside the edge of the Wolves’ Woods, near the outskirts of Paris, was for the Prince’s lover to bat those long, heavily-lidded eyelashes at hers, and a flash of her ankle at a passing farmer returning from the marketplace, and the group of them had hitched a ride in the back of the man’s wagon, claiming she was lost and looking for the Palace of Justice, which was in relatively close proximity to Notre Dame de Paris, LeFou knew.

LeFou stopped struggling and turned his worried, panicked gaze on Maria de Barreau, who was shouting something up to the North tower in rapid-fire French to the young mademoiselle so fast that he barely had time to process just what was going on.

The short, stout former best friend of Gaston Dupont could not recollect a time in his life when he had been more frightened.

Apart from the horrible sense of déjà vu, he was experiencing when he and Gaston had more or less kidnapped poor old Maurice (though much against LeFou’s wishes, not that Gaston had ever listened to what he’d had to say in terms of advice), he finally understood why Maria had brought him along.

It wasn’t for interrogation as he had initially thought. Maria was using him as live bait to lure Belle outside. With a heavy sigh, LeFou hung his head and wearily closed his eyes, finding brief solace in the darkness.

He could live with such a death, he told himself, if he had to die in order to ensure the young mademoiselle remained safe inside her precious sanctuary.

 _Whatever you do, milady, stay put_ , LeFou pleaded silently. _Please, please, please, stay inside… don’t come out for me. Don’t. I’m not worth it. Stay inside. Don’t come out for me._

_Stay inside..._

* * *

Belle parted her lips open slightly to try to speak, though nothing was coming out, save for a few strangled attempts at her speech. She clapped both hands over her mouth, stifling back choking sobs that caught in her throat and rendered her almost faint, as the young blonde mademoiselle grinned rather ghoulishly, her pallid complexion against such striking blonde hair almost giving her the appearance of a banshee as she looked towards the towers.

The girl could have sworn the other woman was somehow able to see her from this vantage point, as her icy-glacier gaze had somehow found hers and held her immobile, frozen, and rooted to the spot where she, Quasi, and Darius all stood on the walkway.

“ _Bonjour_ , pretty little belle,” she called out in a singsong, sickeningly gleeful voice that rendered Belle’s blood to ice in her veins. “I regret to inform you that your little friend down here was caught conspiring against the French crown by trying to _escape_.”

She felt the tempered grip of Quasi’s ironclad grip on her shoulder, as her husband was trying to say something to her, but all Belle could hear was this young woman’s clear and coldly calculating oration as her words chilled her blood and curdled it.

“As it so _happens_ , I was commanded by our Prince of these lands to bring him to the Palace of Justice for questioning. The Prince has granted me such permissions before escorting you back, milady, and I thought I would do you the courtesy of informing you,” the young woman giggled, dipping into a curtsy.

“No…” Belle’s voice cracked as a hoarse whisper erupted from her throat. Belle’s nervous, tear-filled gaze flitted to rest on Gaston’s former friend’s kneeling form, dark hair hiding whatever expression he wore from her as he lowered his head in hot shame.

She could have sworn the blonde woman smiled at her from down where she stood in front of the steps of the cathedral.

“Allow me to propose a _choice_ ,” the girl continued, speaking in her smooth, languid tone, though just a brief hint of impatience darted through her voice, even from down there, Belle could hear it. “Come on down here, mademoiselle, and _end_ this, and I _won’t_ kill him. Stay up there if you wish, little belle, but know this may be your last chance to look upon his ugly countenance again before his head is removed from his body. The choice is yours. _Don’t_ keep me waiting too long,” the girl shouted.

A gust of wind dashed through the bridge and whipped Belle’s hair off her shoulders. Belle exhaled slowly through her nose, tears streaming down in steady tracts down her cheeks.

In the heavy, uncomfortable silence that followed, she finally heard Quasi’s soft, angered, tenor-like voice in her ears.

“Love? What’s going on? What is she saying to you?”

“She…” Belle swallowed down the wave of nausea and bitter, acidic bile creeping its way up into her throat. “She—she’s got _LeFou_ , one of my…my former husband’s old friends. LeFou.”

“Well, yes, sweetheart, I can _see_ that,” snapped Quasi impatiently, though his patience running out had nothing to do with his wife, of the woman out on the steps who had ruined what would have otherwise been a peaceful morning alone with his wife. “But what does she _want_? Why does she want _you_?!?”

Maria de Barreau continued to hold Belle’s gaze from her place in the town square, and Belle felt her entire body grow cold and numb, and she knew it had nothing to do with the biting chill.

Hardly hearing herself speak to her husband, Belle numbly answered in a flat and listless voice. “She will _kill_ him if I do not leave the church. The—the Prince brought her to bring me _back_.”

She turned solemnly towards Quasi as they stood on the bridge, not noticing how Darius’s face had gone extremely pale.

Quasi blinked, feeling quite certain his somewhat-damaged hearing had failed him, that he had misheard. Ringing the bells, as wonderful as it was and how much he loved it, could still sometimes be considered an occupational hazard, leaving him at times with a fatigued ringing in both his ears. _Had_ he misheard?

Darius froze, looking from his shell-shocked friend and then back to the square below. Briefly, he wondered if there was anything he could do about this nonsense and get this woman off the property. He nodded to himself, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

There was no other way. He was going to have to seek out Paris’s newly appointed Minister of Justice, Jean de Chevalier.

“What does she honestly expect is going to happen?” Darius growled, speaking more to himself than Belle or Quasi, interrupting whatever Belle had been about to say to her husband. “Your friend down there does not seem to have committed any crimes against the Prince.” Darius sighed and shook his head with annoyance. “Both of you _stay_ here. Your friend will be released, mademoiselle, as soon as Minister de Chevalier is informed.”

“No.” Belle muttered her disagreement, shaking her head. “No, he’s not going to be released. I can see it in that girl’s eyes. She won’t let LeFou go.” She looked up at the priest, horror and a fresh bout of tears wavering in her large, dark, now-hollow eyes. “And LeFou was always civil to me. I cannot let the man die, sir.”

Quasi stared at her with large, unblinking eyes for a beat before moving to stand in front of her and gripping onto either of her shoulders with his gloved hands. “You’re _not_ going down there, Belle,” he growled, a shadow of rage darting across his face.

“Don’t be _ridiculous_. Don’t you _dare_ ,” Darius gaped, looking just as angry and horrorstruck as their bell ringer was.

“If I do not leave the church,” Belle continued speaking slowly and surely, “then LeFou will die and it will be my fault.”

A muscle in Quasi’s jaw twitched as his facial muscles stiffened. “You _idiot_ girl,” he snarled, his anger at what he was hearing quickly getting the better of his temper as the familiar hot fire-seed of anger began to churn in the pit of his stomach.

He shoved Belle’s arm away and pointed down at the town square. “Don’t you understand what’s going on, sweetheart? If Darius and I let you walk out there, you will _die_. She’s going to kill you. She’s luring you out, Belle, are you really that _naïve_ , love?”

“I—I know that.” Belle nervously looked down at her hands, gently touching the yellow gold ring she wore on her finger. “But it’s the only way to ensure LeFou’s freedom, Quasi. If Maria kills him here on Holy Ground, I couldn’t live with myself.”

Belle trailed off and drew in a deep breath as her face became pallid before turning a rather interesting shade of green.

She looked as though she were going to be sick. “I have to go back,” she whispered, her voice faint and hushed, as the wind.

Quasi’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. His arms went numb and he struggled to maintain his grip on Belle’s shoulders. All of the color, what little he possessed, to begin with, drained from his face, giving Notre Dame’s bell ringer the appearance of a walking corpse as his skin took on a greyish tinge.

He swallowed back the acid that was seeping up into her throat. “You—you cannot possibly be _serious_. Tell me you’re _not_.”

Belle dropped her chin remorsefully. She could almost hear Quasi and Father Darius’s hearts breaking collectively, though she nodded slowly and sorrowfully. “There _is_ no other _way_ , Quasi.”

“There’s _always_ another way,” Darius snapped angrily.

“You’re going _back_. Back to that _place_. To the _Prince_.” It was not even a question as it left Quasimodo’s lips. He voiced his suspicion as if the man were already certain as he looked at Belle.

“Belle, _please_ …” Quasi grabbed his young wife’s shoulders and jostled her slightly, not hard enough to hurt Belle, but in the hope that he could talk some sense into his pregnant wife. Belle was surprised to look up and see that her husband’s eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, though he blinked them back.

“Do _not_ go out there. As your _husband_ , I—I can’t let you do this. You’re the last…you’re the _only_ good thing in this world I have left. You and our baby. I’m _ordering_ you, as both your husband and superior, to obey me and stay right here. Do _not_ go out there.”

Belle blinked back tears of her own as she bit down on her lip, the numbing protectiveness that enshrouded her heart crumbled bit by bit as she looked into her husband and the priest’s blue eyes. In a disturbing moment of lucidity, Belle realized that Quasi and Father Darius both looked quite similar when the two men were panicking. It almost made her smile a bit.

 _Almost_. She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she had not forgotten that her acquaintance was out in the town square in front of the cathedral steps on borrowed time that was rapidly running out the longer that she stayed safe up here with them.

As she stared into her husband’s eyes, she understood what it meant to love someone so much that she would be willing to do whatever it took to ensure that her family would not be hurt. Her own personal safety be damned. If she had to live the rest of her life knowing that LeFou had been a sacrificial lamb in order to ensure she returned to the castle and lived as a prisoner alongside the Prince, then Belle did not think she could ever sleep again.

“I’m sorry, Quasi,” she murmured in a hoarse whisper, “but this is the one time that I cannot listen to you, love. If my Papa taught me anything, it’s that we all must take our own paths in life. This…this is mine,” she whispered, and before her resolve could falter her, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, feeling his lips move in sync with hers. If this were to be the last time that she would feel him, _really_ feel his kiss, she wanted it to count.

Then, she gingerly removed his hands from her shoulders and turned on her heels to head towards the south tower staircase, though before she could, Quasi’s strong gloved hand shot out and wound tightly around her bicep, not letting her go.

“You’re forgetting,” he growled in a low snarl that made Belle shiver. “That where _you_ go, _I_ go too,” he snapped, lifting his chin, jutting it out slightly defiantly to meet Belle’s gaze. “If I—if I can’t talk you out of doing this, then I’m coming with you, love.”

Belle defiantly shook her head and almost violently tore her hand from her husband’s ironclad grip, wincing as she gingerly rubbed at her fingers. “ _No_!” she shouted, her face paling. “This is my problem to deal with, _not_ yours. Let _me_ do this.”

She turned on the heels of her boots, unable to look her bell ringer in the eyes, thinking that she could hardly bear it to look into her love’s burning blue eyes and see the heartbreak within.

As Belle swiftly descended the south tower’s stairwell, she silently prayed to God, if He were even listening to an outcast like her, that Quasi would forgive her. Perhaps it was selfish to rob a man of his wife but allowing a murderer of a Prince to take away the life of a young man who had done Belle no harm was _wrong_.

And, as Belle entered the main level of the sanctuary, she hoped that she’d not taken too much time in making her decision.

She stifled a groan as she heard the pounding footfalls behind her, just as she reached the front doors of the cathedral, not even having to look behind her to know that it was Quasi and Father Darius. “ _Go_ _back_. _Stay inside_. You—you need to stay here.”

Her voice warbled, lacking the conviction that she really wanted to sell in order to make her argument as she started to cry.

“I _can’t_ let you do this. At least…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, not wanting an argument. 

He paused, exhaling slowly though eventually again found his voice.

“At least not _alone_. You’re my _wife_ , and you’re pregnant, Belle. We made a promise to one another the night we married. I aim to keep that promise. I’m coming with you, whether you like it or not. Do you really mean to _stop_ me?” Quasi snarled as she slowly shifted at the waist to look at him. He spat the words as though they were a bitter poison that had settled on his tongue as he narrowed his azure orbs at Belle.

Belle inwardly groaned, pinching at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, a look of exasperation on her face as she slowly lifted her gaze to meet the men’s piercing stares.

“ _Fine_ ,” Belle snapped, though a sinking feeling in the pit of her nauseous stomach told her that she would regret this later. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter much if I told either one of you to stay put in the church, both of you would just find a way to follow us. But…” Belle hesitated, biting on her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

In truth, Belle was awestruck by the lengths her husband went to care for her, and it was at that moment that she realized that she did not think she lacked the strength to do it without him by her side, and she loved Quasi even more for it at the moment.

He let out a content sigh as Belle brought her hands to his face, seemingly not caring if Darius watched. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, Belle,” Quasi declared, smiling softly at his wife, though his strained smile did not quite meet his eyes.

There was every possibility the two of them were about to walk to his death, and he did not bother stemming back the tears welling at the edges of his own eyes. Quasi followed Belle’s gaze, where she stood rooted, transfixed to her spot, staring at the door.

“Belle? Love? Are you ready?” he asked, instinctively reaching for Belle’s hand and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

Belle swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat and nodded, a nervous but brave smile tugging at the corner of her lips, resting her head against the crook of his shoulder, and when she spoke, she had lowered her voice low enough so that her voice was meant for Quasi and him alone.

“ _Together_.” Belle blew out a deep breath and too soon, her slender hands came to rest on the cold handles of the front doors.

With a glance over her shoulder, she offered her silent thanks to Notre Dame for sheltering her from Gaston and affording her the truly wonderful opportunity to meet the man who was now her love. She met Darius’s pained glacier stare, his facial expression one of a perfect mask of calm serenity, though Belle could see it in her friend’s eyes. He was worried for her. For them both, she saw.

“Will you tell Madellaine thank you?” Belle asked softly, not bothering to stifle her small smile as she witnessed him jump.

“I…yes…” Darius answered, though he looked as though the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind to do such a thing. He paused, looking extremely hesitant and unsure of himself. “I…I _will_ get you both out of this, milady. Quasi. I can _promise_ you.”

Belle smiled sadly. “I hope so. We might need it,” she weakly joked, surprised she could even find her voice at the moment with how badly it shook. With that, Belle nodded and turned back towards the doors, her husband copying her movements.

Belle could not help but to imagine the air around the two of them lifting, almost as if some unseen entity, an angel perhaps, had blessed her and her husband for their selfless sacrifice with a kind smile. It was more than enough for her.

Belle turned back to the doors, drew in a deep breath, and pushed them open, instinctively reaching for Quasi’s hand and shielded her face with her arm as they stepped into the sunlight.

* * *

Her vision slowly but surely cleared. There was a five-pronged candelabra on a table, the wax melted and clung like a witches’ curse. The single white lily in the makeshift clay vase caught her eye. She was lying on her back, the room still feeling like it spun.

The girl’s sleep had been deep, but not entirely peaceful. Images flashed before her, more like fragmented thoughts than actual dreams. Some memorable and benign, but most had passed her by too quickly for her to comprehend them, leaving a darkly unsettling presence in their wake.

“Madellaine? Love?” she thought she heard _his_ voice, leaning over the young woman as her eyelids flickered open and shut again, barely perceptively at all.

Madellaine blinked once, twice, until her mind had settled, and the dizzying giddiness danced away. Her fingers moved and felt the soft pillow. Her body remained numb and uncertain and painful. She caught the sound of what sounded like rattling keys and the door opening. Forcing her body to try to move at all, Madellaine heaved her shoulders to lie face up, the numbing searing her insides better than any branding iron ever could.

Her lungs burned and beseeched her for fresh air, and the girl inhaled deep to fill in and comply with her body’s request.

Madellaine felt as though darkness were closing in around her, pulling her under. She had already fought so hard in her life. There was a part of her that wanted to let go, to fall back into the calming abyss of her nothingness, and be washed away by it, then.

Even as her mind and body begged for relief, Madellaine she could not give up. She would never give up. She had to see her.

She could not let Maria hurt anyone else, especially not Belle. Looking at the monk who had come in, she saw his back. His tall, towering form, his thick luscious dark head of hair, the slight limping motion, and his slightly too-long brown habit.

 _Darius_. He was placing another tray on a table. The sound of cutleries was evident. He had not left her side, she knew this.

Madellaine pressed an elbow against the bed and forced herself upright. Slowly, she found herself able to, and then it felt as though everything had become lighter, except for a pounding on her right temple that still ached as horror hung on her breaths.

She swore she heard a faint female voice coming from down below the town square and then she remembered.

 _Wait a minute_. _Maria_!

She bolted upright, and then almost immediately wished she hadn’t as a horrible wave of queasiness overtook her. Darius’s towering form remained unstirred from the doorway, silently watching her, yet the man said not a word. “Darius?” she whispered hoarsely, sitting upright against the pile of pillows, swallowing down past nausea in her stomach. “Maria, she—she’s _here_ , God, she has to be _stopped_.”

Though whether or not her words had any effect on the priest, Madellaine could not say, as it seemed as the man’s dark brows became to meet in frustration as she heard him exhale. His piercing icy gaze never once wavered or looked away, and he had begun to be weakened by the blonde’s horrified face.

A strange confusion welled within the man’s troubled mind as he was quick to recognize the same look within Barreau’s eyes as he had just witnessed for himself in Belle Dupont’s dark irises. She had made up her mind.

Madellaine sat still and quiet for a long while, staring at the priest. When at last, the young woman spoke, her tone chilled Darius Barret to his very core.

“I have to go, Darius,” Madellaine said plainly. “I cannot let Belle or her husband suffer anymore on my account. I’m leaving.”

“ _What_?” Darius’s pale complexion took on a greyish tinge, and she couldn’t be sure, though Madellaine thought she saw a hint of a greyish tinge take over the handsome man’s features.

The towering priest was shooting her an incredulous look of disbelief, as though he could not quite believe what he heard.

Madellaine looked sternly towards the clergyman and held the man captive there is a hardened, icy stare of her own as she slowly rose from the bed, a hand on her brow until it felt as though the ceiling above her head had stopped spinning wildly.

“You _know_ why, Darius,” Madellaine said coldly. “They will never truly be safe at the castle. They don’t what he is like. What _Maria_ is like. Don’t you _see_ , she never _came_ for Belle, she’s here for _me_.” She voiced what Darius already feared as she spoke. “You don’t know what the Prince will do to them if they try to escape.”

As he looked at her, Madellaine felt her heart begin to race. In the span of the short time she had known the father, the man had never held her gaze for quite this long. There was a look in his frigid, icy blue eyes, the likes of which Madellaine hadn’t seen before, a warm intensity that made her feel terrified and excited.

“You really think I would just _let_ you do this?” Darius snapped, his voice holding a slight edge to it that was leaving the young blonde almost virtually no room for argument. “I won’t.”

“You _will_ ,” Madellaine acknowledged, her own voice clipped and curt. “I’m going out there, and I’m going back with maria. _Alone_. It’s _me_ she wants, not the young mademoiselle. I have to. This is the only choice.”

She nodded as she strode closer until the gap of space was almost closed off between the two of them. She felt him stiffen instinctively at the nearness of her, though she did not allow herself to react.

“I cannot allow my own sister to be a threat to my new friends,” she determined. “Belle does not deserve the unspeakable torment that’s sure to await her if she goes with Maria. I’m _not_ going to stand by and let that happen,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her resolve was stern and steadfast as she met Darius’s gaze. “I promise to come back.”

“You _won’t_.” Darius shook his head, trying to send Madellaine’s words away, though it was increasingly difficult, and the more he tried, the angrier he became as his temper threatened to swell to the surface. “You’re throwing away your life, your freedom. I _cannot_ let you do that. You will be safe here, Lena.”

Her chest numbed and tightened at the use of her sister’s nickname for her, though admittedly, it sounded much better coming from his lips than it ever had her sister’s. She flinched.

Madellaine nodded her agreement, wanting nothing more than to end this conversation and get outside before Maria had the opportunity to do something truly despicable and abhorrent.

“I _would_ be,” she agreed, albeit rather reluctantly. “But I fear that within these walls is the only place my friends would ever be free from the Prince and my sister’s wrath,” she lamented sadly. “I am not sure that either one of you could ever leave, not as long as Belle remains within the Prince’s sights as his next target.”

She shook her head to try to vainly send her tears away.

“Not while…not while my sister and the Prince _live_. This place is truly beautiful,” Madellaine whispered, a hint of pride in her voice as she glanced around the simplistic room in which the two of them had shared a moment last night. “But I will _not_ allow it to become her prison. I won’t let the Prince or my sister hold Belle hostage _again_. My sister came for _me_. She’ll _have_ me.”

Madellaine hesitated, biting down on her bottom lip before reaching for the man’s hand and giving it a light little squeeze meant to display some small modicum of comfort and reassurance. Darius slowly considered Madellaine’s reasoning.

His heart ached to think of the young blonde leaving his side when he was overcome, overwhelmed with a fierce desire to protect her now. How could he watch her go? Something deep within the darkest recesses of his mind told the priest that stung with a horrible bitterness and hurt that the young woman’s plan of offering herself up to her sister in exchange for sparing Belle’s life would not end as she thought.

It was Darius’s turn to stare into the distance, for the man could not bring himself to meet her gaze.

“You’re not coming _back_.” He announced it angrily, gritting his teeth and silently seething, as if he were already certain, his tone was now listless, utterly emotionless. He slipped his fingers from hers and looked like he wanted nothing more than to retreat at the moment, angered and hurt.

Though his words were clipped and angry, the fathomless pain in the man’s blue eyes was too much for Madellaine to bear. The closeness of almost feeling her hands splayed against his chest was too much for Darius, especially with the added weight and severity of what the young girl was about to do to herself.

She was willing to sacrifice for Belle. For Quasi. For himself. Were these the actions of a woman who was repulsed? And if _that_ weren’t enough, she had kissed his cheek. True, it might have been little more than an innocent peck, chaste and affectionate, but somehow, for Darius, it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like more. In any case, would she have kissed his cheek if she did not care for him? He inwardly groaned the moment he felt his hands move of their own accord and grasp onto the young woman’s waist, not willing to let the girl leave.

He remembered how she had fled from him in the kitchens this morning. Perhaps Madellaine de Barreau did have feelings for him and was ashamed and disgusted by them. He couldn’t blame her if that were the case after he had told her about his past life.

In fact, the more Darius thought of it, he was sure it was the only logical explanation. That she was sacrificing herself not for Belle, but to put as much distance between herself and them as possible. He wished he bloody knew what to do in this situation.

He never had expected to wonder whether or not another woman following Hanna’s death would ever grow to care for him. Until now, the answer to that question was always a resounding _no_. If Darius weren’t such a bloody coward, he would have asked Barreau what the kiss on the cheek last night meant.

Finally, he did not think he could bear it any longer. He had to know the truth. “Why did you kiss my cheek the other night?” he blurted out, cringing at the awkwardness of the situation, though he did not think that he would get another chance to ask her again. Madellaine blinked owlishly in response, caught completely off guard as her mouth opened and closed, and a light blush stole its way across her pale features.

“You… don’t know?’

Darius felt something ugly within himself shift and start to give away. He heaved a tired sigh and looked away, unable to bear the weight of Maria’s sister’s piercing ice-cold gaze any longer.

“No, but I’m fairly confident I have a pretty good idea, mademoiselle,” he growled, hearing his own voice harden in response to his aggression. “You felt _sorry_ for me after I told you what happened, and you took pity on me. But now you realize that it was a mistake.” He swallowed hard, thinking how difficult it was for him to continue speaking, though he forced himself to press onward. “I—I understand. And I know it meant _nothing_ to you, Madellaine. If you like, we can pretend it never happened. _Go_. _Leave_ then."

A long, awkward silence stretched between them. And then Madellaine whispered, “Oh, Darius. You’re right,” she continued, causing his chest to ache as Darius squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable rejection. Why should he have expected anything less from this young woman other than a world of hurt?

“I _do_ regret kissing you, Barret, but _not_ for the reasons you might think. I—it was the heat of the moment, and I didn’t ask your permission first. And I—I didn’t give you any _warning_. I wasn’t even thinking about how _you’d_ feel about it. I’m _sorry_.”

Opening his eyes upon hearing her words, Darius looked at Madellaine again in confused desperation. “But…why _did_ you?” he persisted, not quite shouting at her, though his voice was raised. Darius’s breath quickened in his throat as she drew even closer until her slender body was pressed against his chest, reaching out and taking his calloused, rough hands into hers.

“Because…” she paused, putting one tiny hand on his chest, and Darius was certain Madellaine could feel it for herself, pounding relentlessly against its cage of bone and cartilage until it was out of control until he thought it might grow wings and escape.

Though whether or not she was aware of it, she continued. “Your heart has been broken and put back together so many times. Despite those things, your heart is pure, full of so much kindness and goodness and hope. That’s what I see when I look at you, Darius Barret. You can hide behind your habit and inside the church all you like, but that is what I see when I look at you. And _that_ was why I kissed your cheek,” she whispered in a fierce tone.

She was so close to him now, he could feel every inch of her. And yet, not _nearly_ close enough. He exhaled a shuddering breath, wishing there was a way to talk her from her suicidal plan. Darius hesitated. This was bloody _it_.

“Will you…will you kiss me again?” he breathed shakily, hardly daring to believe the words that were tumbling out of his own mouth in a husky voice.

Madellaine leaned forward. He could feel her hot breath on his lips and the sensation very nearly drove him wild. “Do you want me to?” she asked in a small, faint voice as his eyes closed.

“Yes.” Darius felt something within himself give way as if he were finally surrendering to an urge long since repressed. His blue eyes darkened, he felt it. He did not say a word as he took her face into his hands and opened his eyes, wanting to look at Madellaine to gauge what her reaction was, if she wanted it, too.

The look in her eyes told the man yes, though they had gone too far now, and Darius knew that Madellaine knew for herself, she was not a stupid woman, he could see it in her eyes.

And even if nothing ever came from this, Darius could not manage to stop himself from being honest with Madellaine Barreau. His chest felt like it was a dam breaking. He had reached his limit and he didn’t think he could manage to do anything else without bloody well going insane.

This woman, this celestial-like angelic creature had bewitched his senses, ensnared him into a vice grip around her littlest finger, and the priest knew if he did not do something about it now, then he might not get the chance later if she would give herself up and over to her sister.

He thought he might explode. Brushing her blonde bangs out of her eyes, Darius leaned down and captured her mouth with his without any sort of warning, giving Madellaine no time to think or react to change her mind, and he did not want her to.

Their lips fit so perfectly together, as though they were made for each other, that the priest could not help but let out a sigh. Madellaine’s mouth was just as soft as he’d imagined in his dream the other night. He lowered his calloused hands down the column of her throat. He felt her slender fingers curl into fists around his habit, her hands splaying slowly across his chest.

Darius was confident that he had never felt anything so sensual before, and for the priest, it felt as though everything had suddenly become heightened, like the room around them had disappeared and had magically transported them somewhere else.

Madellaine felt so much; he could feel it, though with her inexperience, she had no idea what to do next, and yet, this sensation only caused Darius to want more of her. She did not seem to know what it was like, to be loved. _Truly_ loved.

Everything the two of them were experiencing together was real. The tiny little moan she gave out was real, her hot breath against his was real, and the moment he felt her tongue’s tip touch his as he deepened their kiss, the priest realized he had never felt anything this intense before, not even during his marriage to Hanna all those years ago, and he probably never would again.

If Darius had thought he’d known what true desire felt like before, he must have been mistaken and dreaming. It felt as though all he had known had stopped around him and held him in this blissful moment. Though he had seen, he had been blind until now; though he could feel, he had been numb until now…and though he had lived, he had been dead until now.

He’d never felt more _alive_. Madellaine’s movements were raw and unpracticed as she lifted her hands to his neck, playing with the ends of his dark hair, which sent shivers of pleasure tingling down Darius’s spine.

It was clear the girl was moving by instinct, though Barreau was everything Darius thought she would be and more than that.

They hadn’t had enough. Darius felt it as they broke their kiss. When he opened his eyes and looked down into Madellaine’s eyes, the hardness within the pale blue of her irises had softened, though there was a flame there that he’d not seen in her before.

Both of them were panting heavily, gasping for air. The heat from the blonde’s skin was so overwhelming, rivaling the warmth of the sun that he felt like Icarus, if he flew too close to the sun, then he would burn, but he decided that he didn’t care.

Darius wanted nothing more than to let himself surrender to this flame, this heat that she gave off. As they both stared at one another, their lips parted, and only one thought ran through him.

For the first time in his life since Hanna’s death, he felt _alive_. Though before he could open his mouth to speak, she interjected before the priest could so much as get a word in edgewise, interrupting what he had been about to tell the girl.

“I…I’m sorry, Darius,” she whispered, her words as faint as the wind. “But I…I have to go. I can’t let anyone else get _hurt_. I can’t let _you_ get hurt,” Madellaine said, her blue eyes widened, as she perhaps finally realizing internally just what had happened.

Madellaine, noting this, let go of Darius and turned on her heels, and quit the room before he could utter a single word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. I’m sure you’ll probably wringing your hands in the air after all of that. But it happened at the right time and the right way for these two characters. Dariline is not the same as Quasibelle and is going to behave as such lol.


	58. High Stakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my OUAT fans, I decided to do a surprise little cameo towards the end of the chapter. I have no idea if it works but I thought it was nice. I wasn't going to but...I like the idea of their friendship, and it's probably only the one scene, soooo oh well. I hope it's still good. I feel like I struggled with this chapter and it might be one of my weaker ones, but rest assured, our lovely Quasibelle DOES get a HEA....but I make 'em work for it. *Insert evil laughter* 
> 
> And if you're interested, I did a couple of manips of our lovely Belle and Madellaine, what I think they'd look like in sort of an OUAT-inspired world, which you can see here: 
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/marrowinthebarrow/art/A-Beauty-but-a-Funny-Girl-that-Belle-869859668 
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/marrowinthebarrow/art/Disney-s-Madellaine-869823923

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN**

LeFou’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when the heavy, creaking groan of the wide oak double doors of the massive cathedral echoed throughout the otherwise empty town square.

The man jerked his head upright to see Belle’s terrified face peeking out of the church. For a moment, the young woman stayed here, and LeFou genuinely thought the lady was only looking out to see what was going on. But then she emerged in full, hand-in-hand alongside that of her husband, the wretch that Gaston had lost his life to, and LeFou immediately began to try to struggle free. Maria jabbed him again with the point of her blade.

“Shut up. _Stop_. _Moving_ ,” she barked through gritted teeth, though she did not dwell on LeFou’s struggling movements as Belle calmly and swiftly approached, her expression hardened. “Ah. _Finally_. The young mademoiselle graces us with her presence,” Maria said over her shoulder in rather gleeful French.

Belle briefly glanced towards LeFou, still in a kneeling, submissive position on his knees in front of Madellaine’s sister.

She squared her shoulders as the young blonde approached her, her chin raised, though her lips quivered maddeningly. “If _I_ go with you, if _we_ go with you,” she emphasized, squeezing onto the bell ringer’s gloved hand for emphasis, “will you let him _go_?”

Maria de Barreau paused, stopping to bow her head, spreading her arms in a gesture of faux humility. “I have made you a promise, mademoiselle in front of Notre Dame, did I not? By all the saints that guard her, I swear on my life to let him go.”

Belle shivered through gritted teeth as her stomach churned. She had seen this young woman before, as it so happened. She recognized her. The girl, Maria, once the Prince’s lover and bedwarmer, and _now_ …she was smirking horribly like a hunter to its cornered prey, her vicious hell hound in front of her.

“I’ve come to escort you both back to the castle, milady,” Maria de Barreau curtsied. “Come with us _quietly_ , and no one will get _hurt_.” There was a beat. A pause. And then— “Though before we go, you _have_ something of mine, little belle. I’d like it _back_.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, though before she could open her mouth to even so much as utter the first syllable, a voice from behind her rent the tense air behind her and her husband.

“ **STOP**!”

The unmistakable and familiar voice of the young blonde who had saved her life and Belle had hoped would become a steadfast friend in her life, her normally shy and quiet voice carried through the chilled bitter Parisian air that made her stomach churn as Madellaine de Barreau stormed out of the cathedral, her fists balled tightly against her anger at her sides.

Father Darius was trailing almost right behind her, looking thoroughly ticked and outraged at the scene Maria was causing on the front steps of Holy Ground, his face flushed a mottled red hue.

“ _Maria_!” Madellaine appealed, stepping forward and stretching her arm before Darius, seemingly not letting the man get another step in front of her, though he didn’t pay her any mind and ducked underneath her arm, much to her chagrin. “How _could_ you? Stop this!” she screamed desperately. “ _Stop_!” Please don’t do this! You’re—you’re here for me. Take _me_ , but let them go. Don’t hurt them. Just…just take me, and we’ll _leave_.” Madellaine shivered and waited with gritted teeth for her older sibling to make up her mind.

Madellaine bravely lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly to meet her sister’s twisted sneer. She watched the color drain from Maria’s face.

“ _Ah_.” Maria’s unnaturally wide, Cheshire cat-like grin that was devoid of warmth stretched her lips even wider. “Hello, _sister_. Oh, perhaps we could settle our little dispute once we get you all back home? The Prince does not like to be kept waiting. Come, Lena.” Maria interrupted before Madellaine could say another word, the smug grin just stirring more of the revulsion Belle held for her. Madellaine opened her mouth to speak, though before she could, Belle stepped in front of her friend and Maria’s younger sister and interjected.

“I am **NOT** going back there!” Belle barked in a hoarse voice, squeezing tightly onto Quasi’s hand for comfort, cutting off the pair of sisters from their impending future quarrel. “I know what your _precious_ Prince is. He’s a _beast_. What he’ll do to me if I go back. I _won’t_!” Belle vehemently shook her head no in a sudden fierceness of raw, unbridled anger that made Quasi blink.

Just a moment ago, his wife had been ready to sacrifice herself for the life of this strange stout little man on his knees.

But now, he was certain of his wife’s shift in countenance, though as his gaze drifted down, he saw her hands rested on her baby bump that she feared what the Prince would do to her in her current state. But he was not given a chance to mull on this as the blonde-haired consort of this land’s Prince spoke up, shattering his concentration. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from Belle.

“Oh, if only you knew. In quite the ah, _literal_ sense of the word,” Maria growled sarcastically under her breath. For a time, the young blonde woman’s face fell, her brows raised and her mouth open, but suddenly, she took back her words as if a better idea robbed her off. “Well. We’ll see about that—”

“ **BELLE, RUN**! **THE CHURCH! GET BACK TO THE CHURCH! NOW**!” the nearest man bellowed, which in Belle’s case, happened to be LeFou, still kneeling on the cold ground, struggling to rise to his feet, looking as though he’d quite like to strangle Maria de Barreau with his length of iron-wrought chains as Maria revealed a small dagger from underneath her cape and lunged forward to plunge it into her chest.

Though before Belle could take a staggering step backward, her arms groping for Madellaine and Darius, Quasi stepped forward, standing at his full height of 6’2, towering over Madellaine’s older sister, his crushing fear and panic at the precariousness of their situation were suddenly overwhelmed with a new desire. Defend. Protect his wife and unborn child. A bare, raw instinct he didn’t know he had.

Confront that which threatened his Belle, his lovely wife. He would kill the woman in front of him if he had to.

“You’re _leaving_ Paris right now. Get out of here, do _not_ come back,” he snarled through gritted teeth, a shadow of rage and unbridled fury darting across his ashen face. “Will I be forced to _beat_ you, wench?” he shouted, his face draining of what little color was left as a vein in his neck protruded and a muscle in his strong, angular jaw twitched in his growing rancor and swelling temper. “One more _step_ towards my wife, and I’ll snap your neck.”

Tightening his grip on the young brunette’s arm, Quasi quickly spun his wife out of the path of this woman and her blade and towards the safety of Darius behind him, who’d protect the girls. He heard Belle stumble and squeak in surprise and shock at his sudden display of violence and roughness, but for once, Quasi didn’t bother to apologize to his love for his handling of her. He was too concerned with not letting Barreau’s older sister and the weapon she carried anywhere _near_ his beloved wife.

As she started to stumble, Madellaine’s arm shot out and caught her forearm and righted her before she could hit the steps, and both of the girls ran with the measly strength they had left, each mindful to keep an eye on the other, with Darius right behind them, pushing them forward roughly, propelling them to get inside. But it did not take them far. Belle heard the hellish bark of a hound and she saw how Madellaine crashed against the stones slick with ice and melted snow, screaming with an arrow buried in her right thigh.

Belle heard Darius shout Madellaine’s name and her own voice scream for her friend and her husband, though she thought she heard the familiar footfalls of another soldier’s lumbering footsteps, a cry of rage upon his lips, and she knew without even having to turn her head to the side, that Darius was probably now being held at sword point and forced into the same kneeling position on his knees as poor LeFou. She felt like screaming.

This…this was all _her_ fault. Before Belle could reach for the young blonde to help her, a grubby hand wrested her back as her cheek was clubbed with a rough, calloused palm that belonged to one of the Prince’s guards. Belle’s fatigued, ringing eardrums picked up her husband yelling something incoherent, the baying of the hound’s barking.

“ _Down_ , bitch.” Maria was in the midst of laughter at the sport and mess she was making on the front steps of the church.

A bow remained in Maria de Barreau’s hands, approaching Belle and Madellaine with pure hostility hidden behind her barely concealed smugness. Belle was choking back the sobs watching her new friend writhe in pain on the ground, clutching at her thigh, turning pale with the blood slowly draining from her leg.

Maria clucked her tongue in disappointment as she stood over the girls, looking down her nose at her young sister in revulsion and disgust before spitting on her. “You really _are_ quite pretty, little sister,” Maria sighed, almost sounding disappointed. “And really _brave_ too, but why are you willing to _die_ for Belle?”

Madellaine’s sister whistled and the hound came forward, shaking with the heat of excitement seen in the dog’s foaming mouth. Red-eyed, the hulking bitch paced in front of its owner as its tail whiplashed sharply back and forth like a horrible whip.

“ **NO**!” Belle screamed, tears filling her eyes as the dog towered over Quasi, who, she could see was wildly grasping at his arm, struggling to wrench an arrow out of it, barely resisting his urge to scream and almost biting his tongue off with the effort to remain silent. She was once more filled with a horrid sense of déjà vu, the same night that Gaston had murdered her father with his hound. Surely, life wouldn’t be so _cruel_ as to take him away too.

Belle’s blood went sour in her veins, though didn’t get a chance to finish as Madellaine’s faint, weak voice rasped out from behind her. Her terrified, pain-wracked, guttural shrieks flooded the town square and echoed in Belle’s throbbing, ringing eardrums. Belle’s heart threatened to explode from her chest as she watched her new friend’s torment.

“ **STOP THIS**!” she howled, nearly mad with her need to help her friend, sure to bleed out.

Madellaine bit down hard on her lip that it bled, but it wasn’t enough to stifle her scream as her leg gave a spasmodic twitch, and the arrow jostled, and she _screamed_. “ **WHY**? You… _shot_ me…Maria… _Why_ …?” Madellaine gasped faintly, barely audible.

Madellaine stared up at the towering form of her older sister, despite the tip of death staring at her, did not avert her gaze. She would not have imagined Maria could be this cruel.

Yet, the proof was right in front of her very eyes. Unable to breathe, gasping raggedly from the arrow embedded in her left thigh, she turned questioning tear-filled blue eyes up to her sister and realized that for the first time in her life, she held no more love for her older sister. Maria, who was about to _kill_ them all.

Maria looked down her nose coldly to regard Madellaine, and the vengeful glower on her older sister’s face chilled the very blood in her veins, that was already cooled from loss of blood.

“Did you think that I did not _know_ , little sister?” Maria asked her rhetorically. “The Prince has _spies_ everywhere. Nothing happens in this part of the city that I don’t know what’s going on, darling little sister. It’s only a pity you chose the _wrong_ path, for I could have _helped_ you, Lena,” she spat, once again spitting at her feet and shifting the crossbow.

Maria continued speaking, scrunching her nose, and strolling back towards Quasi, still wrestling with struggling to pull the arrow out. She kicked out her feet and managed to kick him square in the arm, jostling the protruding arrow in the process, the man’s hair-raising scream like sweet, sweet music to her ears.

Maria shrugged, aimed the crossbow a second time, and shot Notre Dame’s bell ringer, this time in his right leg.

“ **NO**!” Darius bellowed, his mind refusing to believe what he was seeing. His shriek resounded over the baying hound howling its savage pleasure at the anticipation of sinking its fangs into its prey, which in this case, would be the bell ringer first, and then the women. “ _Don’t pull it out_!” he screamed to Quasi. Darius’s body seemed to move in slow motion as he watched the instant of pain turn to confusion on Quasi’s pale face.

Darius had seen enough of his own men wounded in battle in his past life, that he knew their bell ringer might very well bleed to death here on the front steps of the church if the arrow’s tips were drawn from his body by any hands other than a medicinal expert. The boy needed a doctor and a healer, and immediately.

Quasi stared down his nose at the second arrow now sticking out of his leg, just below his kneecap, as if Quasi could not realize what had just occurred. His lips parted, trying to draw in a breath. In shock he brought his hands down to grasp at the wound, catching his own crimson blood in his gloved hands, clawing at it. He regarded the stain on his hands and then his eyes looked up, finding Belle’s still yards away as he sank to his knees.

Belle’s mind screamed at her, racing with dread.

How could this have happened? How could she have let this happen? Why had it not been _her_ instead? She would bargain with God if she could, to make it her kneeling bloodied on the ground instead of Quasi. It was as if Belle herself felt every inch of the arrows as they ripped through her husband’s arm and his leg. If it had been her own flesh that had been punctured by the arrow, it would surely have been far less torture than seeing it hatefully shot through the man that she was madly in love with.

Belle didn’t know how it happened, only that a vent of adrenaline propelled her body up and forward, bolting as fast as she possibly could be given her pregnancy, reaching Quasi just as he began to crumple to the bottommost step of the cathedral steps.

Falling to her knees, she caught him. Quasi’s broad, but limp form leaned back into her arms. Belle did not think she could handle the fear and bewilderment in the man’s eyes as he stared up at her with wide-brimmed eyes. She held Quasi tight in her arms, the arrows still protruding from his arm and his right leg.

Her husband’s eyes began to swim as if he couldn’t summon the strength to focus on her face. She grew more desperate.

“Ngh—no, you—you _stay_ with me,” she whispered hoarsely, pressing her forehead to his.

For one brief moment, Quasi thought he could see his beloved wife through the haze beginning to take over his vision. He raised his hand to touch at her face, forgetting the pads of his fingertips were stained with his own crimson lifeforce and as a consequence, marred Belle’s greyish-tinged cheeks with streaks of red in their wake as his hands shook.

“ _Please_ ,” Belle begged, her voice cracking a little as her eyes swam with tears. His fingers lingered on her cheek and then fell to his side, leaving streaks of blood down her jawline.

Quasi’s head fell back against the crook of Belle’s arm, and his eyes closed slowly. “ **NO**!” Belle screamed, her body shaking with force as if she could force her husband to be healed that way. Darius heard Belle’s agonized screams over the baying barks of the hound still snarling in front of Madellaine’s convulsing form as her body fought to stay alert and conscious.

His head whiplashed sharply upward in the direction of the young brunette inventor’s daughter’s agonized wails, and his blue eyes grew wide with alarm. He remembered once the pain of losing the only woman he thought he would ever love, and loath though he was to leave Barreau’s side, not about to lose Lena too, he prayed that Belle would not experience the pain of grieving the one who possessed her heart, just as he once had, as he was about to do all over again if he couldn’t get the arrow out of Lena’s leg.

Though before he could focus his attention on Madellaine, Maria’s voice rent through the air, chilling the blood in his veins to ice. “You’ve seen your father _die_ after the hounds had been at him, _didn’t_ you, Belle? Pretty little belle. You won’t be so pretty after _this_ though, I’m afraid,” Maria de Barreau said before turning back towards Belle and Quasi’s crouched form with an arrow stretched in the bow and aiming directly between her eyes.

Madellaine’s older sister’s taunting words fleeted in Belle’s direction, though she remained crouched and unmoved, unwilling to relinquish her grip on Quasi’s unconscious and fading form.

She felt herself slowly rising to stand, struggling to drape Quasi’s arm over her shoulder, the sting of cold reddening her cheeks.

A drop of rage spread through her bloodstream, igniting it hotter than any branding iron ever could as her anger spiraled through her body. The last thing Belle remembered before she lost all semblance of herself was her eyes rolling back into her head as it felt as though her spirit leaped from the ground in a low growl teeming with hatred and a fierce hunger. Then there came the scream of the Woman, that blonde-haired bitch, and blood, sticky, warm garish blood skimming around her mouth, between her teeth.

There was chaos. Shouting, screaming. For the first time in her life, Belle could smell everything with her new heightened senses. She could hear the bitch’s screams, Maria, the wretched little succubus that she was, sweet, succulent music to her ears. And the taste and tang of blood, as the hound sank her fangs in the neck of the Woman, the would-be murderess of the Woman whose familiar scent was starting to fade, her pulse slower. Faded, yes, still alive, but not for long if help didn’t come.

 _Defend. Protect. Attack. Kill. Rip. Tear. Bite. Feed_. The instincts of the wolf within her overran Belle’s mind like a mantra. The wolf had to protect her kin. A new scent filled the hound’s nostrils. Terror. Fear. How it smelled succulent, sweet.

She had never known herself to be a savage bitch, but now given that the Woman had tried to _kill_ , the wolf within Belle as her eyes stayed rolled back into her head snarled and ravished, bearing her blood-soaked fangs, tearing at the Woman’s arm, lashing at her throat, though she missed, but snapped a bow clean in two when the bitch tried to reload her crossbow to take aim.

Belle’s mind was ravaged with pure wrath and rancor as she went lunging after the Woman and the Soldiers, snapping, and clamping powerful jaws onto her ankle, and had Maria screaming in pain. Though the sound of an arrow whizzing past her left ear caused the hound to yelp in surprise before it struck.

This caused the dissipating mist to dissolve behind her dark chocolate eyes, which were wide as dinner plates, her heartbeat thrumming erratically against her chest right now.

As her heart slowly regulated back to a normal rhythm, she began to fade away. Belle exhaled long and deep, now back inside her own body, her cracked lips agape and gasping for much-needed air so her lungs could get in fresh oxygen again. She collapsed in her husband’s arms against the snow and blood-stained steps of the cathedral, screaming, shuddering away from the blood-soaked massacre that she knew would make her retch.

The dog whose body her mind had inhabited lay dead at her side, an arrow now embedded into the neck of the hound.

Her consciousness started to ebb and flow and the sound of boots and cloaks and what sounded like the clinking of armor coming to her aid, though she lacked the strength to scream at whoever it was to help her husband and Madellaine first. _Not me_.

 _Not me, not me, not me_ , she wanted to scream, though couldn’t manage to summon strength enough to shout at the men.

But even in the embrace of the dull blackness that seeped behind her closed lids as she lost consciousness, a dull pain began to fester from her womb before everything around Belle faded.

* * *

“You _cheated_. I didn’t know you were _allowed_ to intervene in this manner, Agathe.” The cloaked man clad in a thick black woolen set of robes was, of course, referring to the use of the lady Agathe’s magic as the Enchantress had aided the lady Belle in allowing her to gain temporary control of Barreau’s own hound.

Something of an old friend to the Enchantress, he had been passing by the area, wandering aimlessly between worlds, when he’d felt her magic. Intrigued, he had sought his old friend out, after all these years, and was surprised at the carnage before him.

His first words to her as the pair watched the strange scene before them unfold as the cathedral’s bell ringer and his pregnant wife and the little blonde lass were escorted away by a group of men, soldiers from the way they moved, shrouded in black cloaks, invisible to the gathering outside the cathedral, their cloaking spells working in full effect to prevent prying eyes from seeing.

The distraught, near-hysterical priest was left alone to deal with the shackled prisoner and the wounded blonde woman that had caused this whole debacle on the steps of Holy Ground.

Agathe’s colleague and something of a warlock had not been involved in her affairs for long, when foolishly, he’d tried to follow her, wanting to know what caught her eye. Rumpelstiltskin had grown tired of enduring the Enchantress’s presence on the edge of his realm, his world. The beautiful witch’s magic was powerful, strange, with no particular set of rules that he could discern. It vexed the man to no end, and his agitation with Agathe’s antics had brought the man here, to speak of their bet.

Agathe lowered the head of her cloak and toyed with a strawberry blonde curl, the edges of her pink, luscious lips curling upwards as she tilted her head to the side to look at the warlock.

“I did _no_ such thing. I did _not_ cheat,” she huffed indignantly, folding her arms across her chest, and glowering at her friend. “There was no indication that said my presence was unwanted when I first arrived. And I could not let them _die_. Was it not you, old friend, that’s fond of saying all magic comes with a price? Has not that girl paid for hers with her father’s life already? Are you _that_ cold and heartless, friend, that you would see the pretty little belle lose her own life _and_ her babe’s life as well? Hmm?” She snapped at him, her annoyance rapidly growing, though just as quickly as it had come, a sly little smile of mischief snaked its way onto her beautiful features. “Besides…” she added, her demure smile widening. “If _this_ Belle dies, then you _yourself_ would not have your _own_ pretty little Belle waiting for you back home, or did you _forget_ that this one is _your_ Belle’s ancestor?”

Rumple made an odd-sniffing noise of disdain, though a hint of the agreement was laced throughout the strange little noise.

The Enchantress resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Besides, I did not see _you_ make any attempt to aid that lot.”

“You play with _fire_ , Agathe. We aren't meant to meddle in their affairs. I’m beginning to question whether or not you know what you are doing,” Rumple cautioned her, glancing sideways at the well-known Enchantress out of the corner of his peripherals. A flicker of something sparked in her glistening pale-blue irises. _Anger_. Her lip curled in a feral snarl.

“People like that woman infest every part of this world, old friend,” Agathe sighed, slumping her shoulders forward in defeat. She was, of course, referring to Madellaine de Barreau’s older sister, Maria. Agathe let out a sigh, pinching at her nose.

“Then _kill_ them,” Rumple answered matter-of-factly with a shrug of his shoulders and a rather high pitched giggle that made the hairs on the back of Agathe’s neck stand up on end at the noise. The answer the warlock proposed was laughably simple, though Rumpelstiltskin’s’ countenance was grim and serious.

“Were that I _could_ , but women, people like that, they _breed_ like rabbits and rats. Kill _one_ , and dozens more like her spawn up. You know this better than I, Rumple, what humankind lacks in power, they make up for it in sheer massive numbers, my friend.”

Rumple tensed upon hearing Agathe’s words as he felt her magic stir and course through her veins as she clutched onto the walking stick that she carried. Her method of channeling her magic through her veins was unlike anything he’d seen before.

“For what reason did you settle here, Agathe?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You could go _anywhere_ , live in any time, place, universe that you want. Why here, now?”

Agathe paused, biting down on the wall of her cheek as she pondered the warlock’s words, searching for the right response.

“I grow weary of this world.” Which world that was, the Enchantress did not specify, though Rumple knew she had traveled to several, had lived in several different centuries. “But…the young women like the younger Barreau lass and Belle, both women are unique. Extraordinary, even, I would say, sir. There _is_ still good in this world, Rumple, if you search for it. That is why I settle during times like these when humanity is at its worst. There’s _always_ good. Always. That is why I stay here. To seek it, and help it along,” she breathed breathlessly.

Rumple gave Agathe his most innocent ‘you leave me out of this gaze’ though the dark glint in his eyes was intrigued, at best. Agathe gave her friend and colleague a wide-eyed stare. "If you _say_ so, my friend," he murmured in a tone that sounded as though he remained to be convinced by his colleague.

Agathe knitted her brows together, pursing her lips into a thin line and huffing in annoyance. “You don’t think this plan of mine will _work_ , _do_ you, friend?” she questioned the warlock in annoyance, her eyebrows furrowed.

“It _has_ to,” Rumple sighed, though he would normally be the first to voice his initial skepticism. “If anyone can break that stupid curse you placed on the arrogant boorish Prince, it’s _them_.” His ever-serious nature giving him a business-first air.

“Not _that_.” Agathe huffed in annoyance, her gaze drawn towards the priest. “Of that I am sure. His curse will be broken, I believe. If not, he will die a beast and the world will be better off. I was talking about the _other_ thing. _You_ know...”

She jerked her head towards the priest, noticing how rapidly her friend’s complexion drained.

“That girl was never supposed to be here. All those two need is… _time_ ,” Rumple grumbled under his breath, taken aback as the priest hauled the injured young woman and the shackled prisoner to their feet, in his dark tempest that was his current mood, being none too _gentle_ with them either, shouting at them, using language that he’d not thought possible from a holy man, dragging the prisoner along by the lengths of his manacles, and the young blonde woman who had nearly succeeded in killing Belle, he shoved her forward so hard towards the front doors of the cathedral that she almost tripped. It was almost unnerving.

To see a man like Darius Barret so unhinged and violent, though the two as they stood silently observing knew the effects and the power of love. He’d do anything to get Madellaine de Barreau and his friends back, even embracing _that_ side of him.

As the man passed, unaware the three of them were being watched, Rumple stiffened. Agathe noticed the man’s discomfort.

“ _What_?” she asked, feigning innocence, absently preening at her fingernails. “What ails you, oh spinster?” she snorted.

Rumple bristled as he felt his annoyance with his friend grow. “He…looks like someone I know back home. A… _friend_ ,” he emphasized, spitting the word through clenched teeth and rooted jaw. He watched the priest’s movements, observing how he walked.

No longer was Darius Barret timid and shy but angered. Angered, beyond the point of no return.

Rumple and Agathe could tell that the man was close to cracking and embracing the other side of his personality, to become the soldier again that he was going to need to be in order to help his friends. A side he had hidden from and long since repressed. He was going to have to bring it out and waken it if he wanted to save them.

“ _Will_ he?” Rumple asked, not realizing he’d spoken it aloud.

Agathe laughed even louder, throwing her head back, and gave the warlock an affectionate little pat on his bicep. “Find out.”

Rumple sighed deeply and shook his head, noticing as he lowered his gaze for a moment upon hearing the cathedral doors shut so hard and loudly that they rattled in their hinges as Father Darius Barret slammed the doors behind him, how Agathe’s hand was outstretched, waiting for the man to take it to transport him.

He stared at it numbly for a moment. “Where are we going?” he questioned, glaring at Agathe with his raised eyebrows.

“To find out,” Agathe answered airily with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, ignoring Rumpelstiltskin’s growl of wrath.

Rumple let out a haggard sigh through his nose, realizing that was as good as it was going to get with his beloved old friend. He intertwined his fingers with hers and gave them a light little squeeze, looking back towards the now-closed door of the cathedral.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Rumple sighed deeply and shook his head, clucking his tongue in mock disappointment. “The next time we see those two at this Prince’s ‘shining castle’, that one in there will be madly in love with this blonde lass, or he’ll have bloody _killed_ her for trying to sacrifice herself like that.”

Agathe was still laughing as the pair turned on their heels and vanished into thin air with a loud, deafening _crack_! that caused some Parisians nestled comfortably in their homes to think that it was merely a crack of thunder, that a storm was on the way, though the Enchantress’s laughter that drifted after them was caught on the winter breeze that gusted through the streets, chilling their bones and causing them to stay inside the rest of the day, not knowing that a storm of a different nature was about to be unleashed…


	59. That Which You Seek, Seeks You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in haste this chapter was, so do forgive the rough-around-the-edges of this chapter! There is a LOT OF EXPOSITION in this chapter as it pertains to my favorite sexy priest and his unexpected background, which I strangely got the idea for in the shower last night, of all places lol, and again I apologize in advance. Whether you love it or you hate it, either way, we’ve come to what is perhaps one of the most important steppingstones in pushing this story forward and kind of bringing everything together in terms of climax and resolutions. I hope you enjoy it and thanks for reading!

**CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT**

Inevitably, we have come to the point in this little tale where it became impractical to remain woefully ignorant of certain events that had just transpired, which in turn, turns our attention now to a figure shrouded in a heavy set of black woolen robes, making his way at a brisk pace down the street, now a player in this little game of the Enchantress’s, whether he liked it or not, and poor Rumpelstiltskin was quick to decide, he _hated_ it.

 _Why_? Why was he so _stupid_? Rumple wished he could tell himself.

He was _not_ doing this. He was _not_ doing this. He. Was. Not. Doing. This. _Surprise_! He _was_ , and all because his damned curiosity had gotten the bloody better of him. He had gone with Agathe to check on the Dupont woman’s health, and the wretch that was rumored to live in the bell towers of the very cathedral he now silently headed towards, running his hands through his thick tuft of short, cropped salt and pepper hair, cursing his madness.

By rights, he wasn’t even supposed to _be_ here, now playing an inevitable role in the chain of events that had been unleashed by Madellaine de Barreau’s sister’s efforts to try to kill the object of the Beast’s obsession.

Rumple had _no_ idea how he had managed to talk himself into this, though upon seeing with his own eyes how the Beast Prince’s staff, a team of doctors and healers were mending the redhaired wretch’s wounds and tending to Belle’s physical condition and stemming the bleeding that threatened the poor woman to almost losing her babe, he felt confident the two would be safe.

 _For now_. Agathe stayed behind at the castle, a silent observer, hidden in the shadows, unseen, which had left him to his own devices, and as a consequence, his curiosity getting the better of him, and as such, had led him away from the Beast Prince’s castle to a new place.

Which led him back _here_ , wanting to see the man for himself. He huffed as he lowered the hood of his thick black woolen set of robes, the very same he’d swiped from Killian last minute without him noticing it.

 _He wouldn’t miss it_. Rumple let out an exasperated groan as he tugged at a loose thread that was coming undone as he walked aimlessly through the streets at a leisurely pace. _Why_? Why the hell was he so _stupid_?

The tall dark oak trees of the village that lined the town square had fallen away behind him not too long ago.

He suddenly wished for nothing more than to retreat back into the protective thicket of his own home, to open up a portal and go back to his own time, his _own_ lovely Belle, but _no_.

His stubborn legs and even more stubborn mind would not allow him to. Not until he had talked to _him_. He ground his teeth in almost nervous anticipation. _Why?_ What had gotten into him tonight of all nights? Rumple wished he could tell himself. The brisk winter chill felt…warmer than usual which was strange.

Although it could have just been the blood rushing to his cheeks at what he was about to do, with whom he felt it necessary to share dialogue, as the man was to need _convincing_.

Rumple walked along the dirt trail, surrounded by the swaying of dead wheat plants, the tired warlock’s feet feeling less tired as he walked.

Oh, hell, this was stupid on so many different levels. He was not meant to interfere in the lives of his wife’s ancestors in this way, and yet, here he was, in a different time and place, doing just that. Merlin _damn_ Agathe and her ability to drag him into this mess that _wasn’t_ his business.

What if he turned back? Just…turned on the heels of his boots and fled this time? Went back home? The man was starting to have second thoughts. This was crazy! HE was crazy for even thinking of doing this. What the hell was he _doing_?!?

“Ugh…I must be out of my mind.” Rumple wearily pressed his palm to his forehead in a sense of annoyance.

The flustered warlock wished his mind would shut up for once. Deep breaths flowed in and out of the exasperated man in the form of long, slow exhales. He _had_ to go. His wife’s future _depended_ on it, and goddamn Barret for feeling inadequate and nervous over doing what needed to be done, hence the reason for Rumple’s unexpected little visit.

Rumple was admittedly nervous, _yes_ , about conversing with a man in the long-ago past that he really ought not, lest he accidentally gives something away that he otherwise shouldn’t reveal, but he could not, would not, turn away.

His own wife, his lovely Belle, an ancestor to this Belle in this particular time period, had brought him here.

If _she_ died, and if Darius didn’t see sense and do what needed to be done, then _his_ wife would die, and Rumple could _not_ let that happen.

 _And Jones too_ , a dark, demonic voice piped up from the furthest corners of his mind, a note of bitterness seeping its way unbidden to the surface, though he decided he didn’t give a damn much about what happened to Killian over Belle’s ancestor.

His wife’s life was at stake, and so _help_ the soldier boy, he’d bloody _murder_ Darius himself with his own dagger he carried hid up the sleeves of his robes if he didn’t do something, and soon, about the accursed Beast-Prince in that castle in order to do what had to be done to save his wife’s ancestor’s life.

He would have to be careful not to let anything slip during his initial conversation with the soldier-turned priest, though he suspected, judging by the language coming from the dark-haired young German-Frenchman’s mouth, that the man was not about to remain a clergyman for much longer.

“You _know_ he won’t, we’ve seen it for ourselves, but why do _I_ have to be the one to convince him,” he grumbled to no one in particular, talking more to himself at the moment, throwing up his hands in the air as he looked around, pursing his thin lips into a rigid, unmovable line of anger.

A familiar nagging, and slightly husky and smooth, seductive voice chirped up in the back of his mind, startling Rumple. 

_You already know how many children the man has, Dark One. Who he marries, how they all die one day of old age. If you let THAT slip, my old friend, you’re done for._ _You can’t reveal much…_

The warlock clasped onto a fistful of his woolen, scratchy robes and stifled a low growl of irritation, careful to keep his voice low so as to not attract any unnecessary unsolicited attention.

“ _Thank_ you _kindly_ , for your input, oh _queen_ , but I can handle this _myself_ , Regina, but I’ve no other choice in this regard. The man deserves to know his _name_!” he snapped, whisper-hissing his words through gritted teeth, angrily waving away the woman’s voice inside of these thoughts with a curt wave of his right hand.

The gesture was just enough to be the silencer to her nagging voice in his mind. Rumple let out a haggard sigh through his flaring nostrils.

Even though the anxious man was sure no one was paying him any mind, too engrossed in the daily on-goings of their own unimportant, mundane lives, he could not quite shake the feeling of dread from wafting down his spine, feeling as though many eyes were staring at the unusual man as he walked.

The man pulled his cloak tighter around as he strode down the path. All he had to do was make it unseen, and then everything would be fine.

Without him noticing, his pace quickened. He held his head slightly lower than normal. Soon, the tips of the illustrious cathedral towers came into his eager sights. His breath hitched in his throat, though he didn’t stop walking. The last time he had come here was…was…he couldn’t recall.

Rumple felt his thundering heart pound against his chest as his trepidation over his role in all of this coursed through his veins and blood. _The steps_. He was right in front of the famous cathedral’s steps.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she, monsieur?” Rumple abruptly turned, growing increasingly agitated and annoyed, as he had assumed no one had cared to notice him nor his current business in front of the church steps.

“I—Indeed,” he muttered gruffly, his eyes making a quick scan of the old beggar woman resting on the bottommost step in front of his path let out a feeble cough asking if he had any farthings or shillings to part from. “I’m afraid I’ve not any, I’m sorry,” Rumple growled thoughtlessly, glancing down his nose at her, only to find himself staring at her posture.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the woman’s gait. Considering the nature of his job, Rumple had come into contact with all manner of people and creatures throughout his life. High or low born, it mattered not what you were when you lived in a world where magic threw all forms of normal social convention out the metaphorical window to the stones below. Nevertheless, things could not be unlearnt, and he knew this.

“Ah, milady,” said Rumple smoothly, changing his tone of voice to one of a sly, unassuming nature, though he’d already figured it out, “are you sure that I cannot assist you in a more productive way? A way _home_ , perhaps?” he growled, balling his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“ _Milady_!” scoffed the old crone, winding a rich purple shawl around her shoulders tighter for warmth as she leaned back against the wall and regarded Rumple’s cloaked form with raised eyebrows. “What’s got into you? I am _no_ lady,” she chortled, shaking her head in mock disagreement.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, milady,” the warlock chortled as he wore a rather benign smile and crouched down on the step, so he was at eye-level with her. “Only I was wondering what a refined queen such as yourself is doing in a place like this… _Regina_?” he growled in a low voice.

The air shifted as the old woman’s incredulous expression darkened, and she looked at the man’s unwavering, grim expression, realized that lying to a person of such a perceptive nature was more or less fruitless.

The woman let out a haggard sigh and snapped her fingers, her ugliness melting away to reveal a beautiful dark-haired woman, now clad in a luscious purple silk gown and corset, her black hair cascading past her shoulders, ending at her breasts, though Regina fixed her comrade with a pointed glower and furrowed eyebrows as he extended a hand to help her.

“What gave it away?” Regina asked disgruntledly in a straight tone as she righted her posture, holding her head higher, jutting out her chin slightly defiantly as she stared at Rumple and waited for the man to speak.

“I’ve roamed everywhere, from Marseilles to Paris, to other worlds, to places in _between_ worlds, but have yet to meet a noblewoman who manages to fold her legs so neatly yet slouch in such a convincing way. You’re no ugly beggar, Regina, so drop the act, especially around _me_.”

Regina stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and shook her head. “Fine, _fine_ , you’ve caught me out, oh, Dark One, I hold no fear in admitting such to you,” she snorted as she sniffed in light disapproval. “You may now go about your business, but allow me to join you, my old friend.”

He almost snorted and rolled his eyes to himself at the use of the term ‘ _friend_.’ He wouldn’t exactly call their working relationship a friendship, but even he had to admit, knowing Regina had its perks.

“Why are _you_ here?” he asked, the question just burning on the tip of his tongue, his annoyance reaching a new level with the woman now clinging onto his arm as though he himself were her lifeline of sorts.

“I came to watch the father, yes, I _know_ ,” replied Regina, a twinkle developing in her eyes as the pair slowly ascended the steps of Notre Dame arm-in-arm, earning a few quizzical looks from their Parisian passersby, though the odd pairing paid them no mind. “ _You_ might have been watching the lovely mademoiselle Belle and this priest, but who’s watching _you_? Hmm? I came to…make sure you followed the _rules_ , my old friend.”

Rumple did not bother to tamper down the bemused little chuckle that escaped his lips as the pair stood in front of the doors, a little in bewilderment by the situation he now found himself in alongside her.

“You just want to see the resemblance! _Admit_ it,” he snapped hotly, unsure where this little outburst was coming from, though Regina smirked.

“Yet a second time, my friend, where you’ve caught me out. Color me impressed, Dark One. Very well.” She huffed in frustration and looked towards the door. “I’m… _intrigued_ , that’s all this is. I want to see what he looks like. The resemblance back home is almost uncanny. I itch to see it with my own eyes. I’ve seen the portraits, the records of the man’s name throughout the history books, what he’s famous for, or _was_ , but it’s the _girl_ that concerns me. Barreau, or whatever her name is. Well. _Former_ name, but not long, if my timeline is correct,” she added, furrowing her brows in thought. “This one’s a blonde too, is she not?”

Regina let out a tired sigh and shook her head, more to herself than Rumpelstiltskin at the moment. “I’m beginning to wonder if the whole line of men in Jones’ family prefers _blondes_ ,” she joked, her weak attempt at a joke falling flat as she swiveled her gaze and looked towards Rumple, whose expression was quite solemn. “They won’t even know I’m here. I won’t say a word…” She paused, looking towards the door before turning back to Rumple. “Are you going to tell him, at least a _little_ bit of the truth?” Regina asked casually.

Rumple would not have relented were this anybody else other than Regina, but upon looking into the woman’s inquisitive eyes, he could not at least resist telling someone, and it might as well bloody be her. There was only a limited amount of information that he could tell the priest.

“What, that his whole life, his surname is a _lie_?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, yes, given the man’s current mood, I’m sure that will go over _swimmingly_ ,” he snorted, though as he looked at Regina, she was grim and lax together, and it was then that he realized, perhaps he’d have to know.

Maybe it would give him the incentive the man needed to push him over the edge, to propel him to leave the sanctuary they now stood in front of, and go after the young blonde mademoiselle who held his heart forever. _And Belle and the boy_ , he had to remind himself, almost agitated.

Yet nevertheless, perhaps it was because the two of them now stood on Holy Ground, that Rumple found himself began to speak of the truth to Regina.

What spouted out of his mouth was from his rote memory, what he’d learned of the priest inside from the ancient texts of old, now hundreds of years old, back home in their own timeline, but here, not so and had resulted in him time traveling a few months back to learn the truth.

“A man came to me once during my travels, dying of an illness. I could tell by the way he staggered into my home that he had not long to live. A few days, maybe. It was luck that I was even there. Anyway, despite the fellow’s old age and his poor health, the man in question still held quite an intelligent mind. He told me it was imperative that I help him locate his niece, the only one left who had been kind to him in this family of aristocrats. His rich older brother had just passed away from black fever. Anyway, I helped him. Gave the man lodgings and food…for a _price_ , of course,” he added, noticing Regina rolled her eyes out of the corner of his peripherals.

"When you're good at something, Gold, never do it for free," Regina snorted.

Rumple shot Regina a truly withering and admonishing glower, but forced himself to continue speaking.“He told him he wished for help in locating his beloved niece, as his family was desperately trying to locate their only daughter who had left the family, deserted the family name years ago for some…some man. The estate and assets would have gone on to the next male descendent in the line in most cases, but this particular family had decided so dealing with the property was not going to be as simple as that. In other words, it was completely within the brother’s right to bequeath the estate and his will to whomever he so wished it to go to upon his death. He chose his niece, wanting to find her, forgive what had transpired, and to give her what was rightfully hers.”

“ _Enough_ with the lead in!” Regina snapped, growing impatient, curling her hands into fists at her side. She jerked her head towards the door. “What does it have to do with our handsome holy soldier in there?”

Rumple shot his colleague a pointed look, silently warning her not to interrupt him in full flow again.

“Will you shut _up_?” he snapped. “I’m _getting_ to that. Merlin, you’re as bad as my Belle when she wants to know something,” he sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Where was I? Oh. Right. The brother’s niece. This man had searched high and low for, but she’d disappeared without a trace. He was dying, with no one left to take his place upon his time of death. He gave me his name, his brother’s, and the daughter’s name and that was it. He scribbled it down on a piece of parchment paper, saying if she could be found, then she would inherit everything. The will would expire in three years, so it was imperative to find her before then. He died two days later.”

Regina slowly nodded her head at all of the information as her mind processed the story Rumple was weaving for her. “And the daughter? What made her leave behind the family? True _love_?” she already guessed the answer upon seeing Rumple incline his head slightly and nod towards her.

“Yes. You could say that. An unsuitable match. The parents strongly opposed the suitor, but the young woman was adamant to marry the man. This particular family is ah, not well known within social circles here, I couldn’t find the daughter. As the dying man said, it was as if the damned woman had just disappeared off the face of the planet without a trace at all. The name of the woman’s suitor that she had run off with was easy enough to find, it’s quite a common name, you know. A soldier. A sailor on the High Seas. A _pirate_ , though the truth would be revealed to the girl later. This pirate fell in love with the German woman harder than a Black Tuesday banker," he snorted, letting out a high-pitched giggle before quickly composing himself. "But the landing was just as rough. No doubt, the man was passing through the village in which the young German woman lived for a while, hence how they began to get acquainted. After a time had passed, presumably while this pirate and noble were courting, the daughter had announced her love and attachment for this man in question, and it was at that point the man’s steps became no longer traceable. It was as if he too had just somehow managed to make himself disappear. It wasn’t too long after his disappearance that he had changed his name in order to protect his now-wife, who had managed to succeed in changing her name as well in order to re-invent themselves, make a fresh start."

"Why?" Regina asked, furrowing her brows in a frown.

Rumple shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He didn't really care either way, as long as his own wife was safe. "I suspect the man wanted to put behind his life of crime, to be present for his wife and any children that the pair of them might have. Thanks to Agathe’s help,” he begrudgingly admitted, “I was able to find out where the man had taken up residence, in a small coastal town in Germany, shortly before her meddling in my wife’s ancestor’s life brought me here to Paris,” Rumple added, almost as an afterthought. “The woman died of the plague. But when I went to the cottage to investigate it for myself, I found a crib, which the landowner confirmed had belonged to the family that had inhabited the cottage prior before the plague swept the nation. The crib was hidden in the attic, perfectly preserved, alongside spoils of the man’s…travels in the orient during his time as a sailor.”

Regina made an odd little strangled sound at the back of her throat, a noise of disbelief.

She shot him a look that suggested she could not quite believe what she was hearing. Regina’s eyes widened as she took a faltering step backward, though her grip upon Rumple’s arm tightened even further, and the witch would have likely fallen off the topmost step of the cathedral had Rumple not yanked her forward, albeit rather more roughly than he would have liked, for her heard his colleague let out a startled squeak of surprise and awe.

She straightened her posture and opened her mouth to speak, though once again, Rumple interjected and cut the woman to the point.

“Yes. You’re correct. The woman had a child with this man, this _pirate_. A son. They eloped in secret. If I had to hazard a _guess_ , she didn’t want her family to know, for if they had, they’d have had her take the pennyroyal tea that would terminate her pregnancy and force her never to see the man again. _That_ , to answer your question, is why I have come. And to ensure she meddles no more in the life of my wife’s ancestor. I _love_ Belle. _My_ Belle, not _this_ one!” he bellowed, upon seeing Regina’s smirk widen.

"The lengths you go to care for your pretty little wife and your family is truly touching, Dark One," Regina simpered, her tone holding a slight mocking lilt.

Rumple silently seethed.

“I’ll not have this _witch_ make a mess of history anymore so than she already bloody _has_. I won’t have the one good thing in my life that makes it worth all of the hardship and strife to be taken away from me,” Rumplestiltskin growled, though something in his eyes softened as his gaze became glossy, and he thought of his own Belle back home, waiting for him. “ _That_ is my reason. Not because I care for the _mess_ dear Agathe’s gotten into, because I _don’t_ ,” he snapped, harsher than he would have liked. “First, to see if there’s the connection, and to ensure history goes according to how it is already written out, and second...”

Here, he shot Regina a little lopsided grin that she wasn’t admittedly sure what to make of as he paused to draw in a breath before speaking again.

“I want to see this young Madellaine de Barreau mademoiselle for myself. And Darius too. The man is rumored to be a spitting image of his father, this once-notorious pirate that disappeared off the face of the earth. The priest’s age matches roughly around the time when the mother died, not knowing that his father changed their surnames in order to protect his family from his old former enemies, and his wife’s family, not wanting their family to be ripped asunder. Darius has lived his whole life, thinking he’s a Barret, when he _isn’t_. He’s a—” Rumpelstiltskin started to say, though Regina quickly cut him off, once again, not letting him finish.

“A _Jones_ ,” she whispered, her eyes wide and round with shock. “So…you’re going to confront him?” Regina said hoarsely. “You truly think your hot-headed soldier in there is going to _believe_ all of this?”

Rumple pursed his lips into a thin line as a shudder went down his back. “He’ll have no _choice_. If he does not come forth and lay claim to his familial inheritance, it will be all for naught and fall by the wayside, Regina. He can no longer remain tucked safely away inside these stone walls.”

As if to emphasize his point, the warlock gave a pat of the wooden doors, never once averting his gaze from Regina.

“Not when the woman he loves remains in the clutches of this land’s prince, though whether or not he's aware of his feelings remains to be seen,” he let out a haggard sigh. “I know her naught, but what I _do_ know of Madellaine de Barreau from the histories, she’s a sweet-tempered girl, none of what happened here today is her fault, though the girl believes it to be her fault. The Barreau girl is bright, open-minded, understanding and in time, is a good friend to Belle and will make a good wife. She has incredible patience to put up with a broken damaged soul like Darius Barret and for him to stand by and allow that woman to die at _his_ claws—”

“You _won’t_ ,” Regina interjected, cutting Rumple off before he could finish.

She looked towards the door for a moment before turning her gaze back to him. There was a strange expression of calm serenity in her gaze, most unusual and the likes of which Rumple was sure he’d not seen before.

“You’re _not_ going to stand by and just let that happen, my friend. He needs… _encouragement_. I think that _you_ can give that to him. It’s why you came here, isn’t it? To ensure their history plays out as it ought to, yes?”

He nodded. He did not feel the need to elaborate that if he allowed Belle’s ancestor in _this_ timeline to come to harm, then his own wife’s very existence was threatened. But just one look in Regina’s heavily-lidded and narrowed eyes told him that he did not need to say a single word to her.

Regina understood. “ _Go_ , then,” She encouraged, jerking her head towards the doors before turning on the heels of her boots and walking down the steps. “I’ve my own ways of watching this unfold without disturbing your mission,” Regina chuckled darkly, an amused glint glowing in her eyes. “Your soldier boy in there and the Barreau girl are on borrowed time. As is your wife’s ancestor, or have you _forgotten_? What’s to be done of the Beast?” she questioned, her curiosity getting the better of her now.

“ _Him_.”

It was all that Rumple could manage to say. He looked back at Regina with a strange tinge of melancholy forming in his eyes. “But he needs…the right _push_ if you will. Like it or not, Agathe’s enlisted my help. I must help this man, he needs it now more than ever. His father would want that for him, and his mother would too, I believe, and now with things escalating as they have been…I want to see it for myself. His change. It would be nice to think something good will come of all this.”

Regina nodded, not saying a word, turning on the heels of her boots and shooting the immortal warlock a demure little half-smile that made him cringe. No doubt she’d be grilling him for an update later, but there would be time for that. For now, he had more important matters to deal with.

As he turned back to face the door, his expression went grim.

For better or for worse, everything was about to change. Was it too late for him to turn back? Unfortunately, yes. Yes, it bloody well was. For a moment, Rumple allowed his wide eyes to gaze up at the massive towers and parapets and buttresses of the proud Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame.

He wondered if one of the daunting gargoyle statues watched him from above, assessing and judging him for why he’d come to see Barret.

Rumple knew he couldn’t stand out here forever. As much as he would have liked to, not wanting to meddle with time any more than he already had, as the lives he was about to interfere with had nothing whatsoever to do with him, at least not Barret and Barreau’s, he knew he couldn’t.

The smallfolk, these damned Parisian peasants, would notice if he did. The overwhelmed man quickly recited a mumbled curse under his breath, outstretching his hand, though stopping in hesitation. His unblinking eyes gazed at the handle that he knew he needed to grab onto.

A cold breeze wafted past him, the harsh fabric of his black woolen robes flowing at his feet. His hand had a mind of its own as he rose it to the door. His shaking, calloused fingers curled around the chipped handle.

“Merlin Above help me. I really _am_ a stupid man,” he groaned, for the second time, the bewildered man spoke only above a whisper. With a firm twist and a push, the massive door creaked wide open. Through the cracked door, his inquisitive eyes peered into the darkness, already wincing as the unmistakable sound of Barret’s shouting rent through the cathedral.

 _Just like a true Jones. Like father like son. I’m sure if Killian could see this, he’d not bloody believe it,_ he thought wistfully to himself.

The man’s ancestor’s voice carried when he so wished it, and it sounded like he was unleashing seven shades of holy hell onto Maria de Barreau for her crimes committed here on Holy Ground. _Now was definitely one of those times_ , he thought.

But of course, he was forbidden to tell anybody what happened when he returned, as was Regina. By the time he returned, he’d not be able to tell a soul of what had transpired here in Paris France, in the year 1482. It was against the rules. Killian had no right to know Rumple had spoken to one of his own family members. The knowledge would surely _kill_ him, and by rights, Rumple knew he and Agathe were creating a risk just by coming _back_ here.

Rumple rolled his eyes to himself and breathed a heavy sigh as he slipped through the door and vanished into the darkness, slamming the door shut behind him. The man was smart enough not to look back at all.

Corridors to the cathedral had long since become dim.

There were no other souls wandering about, for which Rumple was grateful. He could not repress the violent shiver that clawed its way up and down his spine, looking side to side like there were claws wanting to snap his spine in half. Near the edge, towards the back to what looked to lead towards a wine cellar, a storage cellar, perhaps for food storage, he heard his voice, and Darius Barret’s voice wasn’t meek at all, but on the verge of breaking.

His deep voice calloused by ire, graceless and livid.

 _Like his father_. Rumple rested a palm along the cold stone wall as a chill stabbed through his heart and pulled him away from immediately appearing on the scene. Hiding was pointless, he sighed to himself. Even behind the wall like this, Rumple could perceive the man’s fury that hung on every crevice of it. His brows began to crease as outrage strangely filled his pores as he leaned forward, straining to listen for more sounds.

Not that he had to _try_. Barret’s voice carried whether he knew it or not, sending a chill down the warlock’s spine from his hidden place in the shadows.

“ _I gave you this chance, you witless wench! And now you would lie to my face again?_ **DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL**?” shouted Darius, the edges of the man’s normally kind and quiet voice now hardened, almost to the point of being unrecognizable. Rumple wet his lips with an almost drying tongue. Another reverberating bang of the man’s fist crashed on a wooden surface that sounded like a table and echoed loudly.

Carefully, slowly but surely, Rumple crept forward, careful to remain shrouded in the shadows wanting a better look. It was as he had suspected.

The blonde bitch, a pretty wench, but a _bitch_ , nonetheless, had been thrown violently against the wall, the priest’s cerulean blue eyes darkening with a rage that Rumple had never seen not even in the likes of Killian before back home. He fell silent, still his breathing to almost a standstill.

Darius Barret had Maria de Barreau by a handful of her long golden blonde hair, his face thrust so close to hers that their noses almost touched.

“If you cry out, wench, I’ll pin you to the wall here and leave you to bleed out, test me again, I dare you," he hissed through gritted teeth. "After what you've done, it's no less than you _deserve_ , you witch,” he promised Madellaine de Barreau’s sister vehemently, no warmth or kindness left in the man’s voice. His eyes burned with anger as the man shook as he addressed the Prince’s consort. “You _looked_ me in the eyes and _lied_ to me once.” He was shaking with hatred. “It _won’t_ happen _again_ , wench,” Darius Barret growled. “You almost _killed_ Belle and her husband. You almost _killed_ your own sister, the woman that I care for,” he spat.

"Please..." Maria begged, a steady stream of tears pouring down her face. Unfortunately, it was the wrong thing to say. Rumple flinched and shirked away as he could see something in the man's countenance shift and give way to something much harder, much darker, buried after years of trying to repress against it all.

Suddenly, he grabbed Maria by her face, his fingers digging into her pale, pristine flesh, and he let out a low, almost wolfish snarl through gritted teeth as she opened her mouth to plead with him, tears glistening down her cheeks, no doubt beg for her life, to plead for mercy.

“ _Shut_. _Up_!” He glowered at her. “Shut your _mouth_ , you stupid _whore_! **SHUT UP**!”

His voice was a stream of pure hatred as he brought up his hand and loosed his wrath upon Maria de Barreau’s face, knocking her to the ground, stalking towards the wench now scrambling as well as she could, given her injured ankle, away from the towering, tall form of the imposing man.

“Of course, I could just let your precious Prince’s _hounds_ have you, rip you _apart_ limb from limb just as they did to Belle’s _father_ ,” Darius snarled. Rumple shuddered at hearing the cold edges of the man’s voice.

“N—no, please!” Madellaine’s sister begged, her own blue eyes glistening with tears and wide with pleading. “H—have mercy, Father!”

“ _Why_?” Darius retorted coldly, but even. “Give me one reason why I _shouldn’t_ ,” he hissed. “Considering what you did to her _father_ , there’s no question in my mind that it would be appropriate. However,” he snapped as he hovered over her, the woman’s own dagger now held in his hand, “since I’m not as _vulgar_ as you are, it would give me no satisfaction." He paused to kick up a chair and straddled it backward, shoving the woman to the ground, ignoring her pleas for mercy. "So, I think I’ll just _sit_ here and watch as you take your last miserable breath while you bleed out from your own wounds. You’ll get no aid from _God_ here. But before you do _that_ , you’re going to _apologize_ for all the mischief you’ve caused. Isn’t that _right_ , _Maria_?” he said, his voice now dangerously quiet.

And at that, Rumple cowered. His haughtiness crumpled further, and his soul strangely felt for the weeping, sniveling woman in the corner, about to lose her life if he couldn’t think of a way to stop this happening.

Surely, Darius, as a soldier, knew what this was like.

What he was about to do. He’d heard the nickname the Germans and the French had given Killian’s ancestor once. Oh, he knew it well.

Darius knew better than most the devastation that crashed against his core and turned his heart to ashes. To hold the weapon in your hand and mutilate a person until there was nothing left on their bones, and this person has to be the sister of the woman that the priest was growing to care for, perhaps even _loved_ by now.

To hear the woman’s screams and have it be trapped and replayed in your mind like a ballad during sober nights. To see the look in the terrified girl’s eyes, a look that still spoke of help and the potential for forgiveness despite your blade being stuck between layers of their own flesh as you wrenched the dagger in deeper.

Oh gods, but Darius knew it well, just as Killian back home did…how it could wreck your psyche and mold you into an even viler monster that manifested at every second without even having to try for it.

There was a horrible ringing in the Dark One’s eardrums and in Rumple’s head was a dissonance of tolling death bells. He started to violently shiver, and his chest tightened and constricted whilst his breaths trembled. Horror was the only emotion left in the warlock’s closed eyes.

He opened them, feeling like he was watching in slow motion and in horror as the towering dark-haired priest knelt into a crouch, having successfully backed Madellaine de Barreau’s sister into the corner of the room, and the moment the glint of the silver dagger caught Rumple’s eyes, his heart violently tore to pieces, and finally, he stepped from the shadows.

“ **STOP**!”

His shout was rewarded when the priest’s head whiplashed sharply upward, with Darius Barret breathing violently as he looked around for the source of the disturbance.

The man’s face drained of what little color was left as it hardened as he rose to his feet, sliding the woman’s dagger back into the sheath of his own belt. Rumple could see the hatred and revolt that screamed in Darius’s pores at the interruption of being denied swift retribution for that which had been unfairly stolen away from him, then.

“Monsieur, I don’t know _who_ you are, but this business does not concern you so I suggest you turn around and get out of here, monsieur.” Darius’s whiskers of his growing beard along the man’s strong, two-day stubble from not having shaved almost stood upright in barely contained anger. He pointed a shaking hand towards Maria. “ _This_ _woman_ —”

Rumple shook his head, cutting him off, sensing danger. “I _know_ what she is. What she’s _done_. I saw the whole thing. Let the girl go. She will answer for her crimes against Belle and the countless others she has hurt, but not by your hands, Monsieur Barret. This _isn’t_ you. Think of your wi..." He caught himself, giving his head a curt shake of his mind, stifling his growl of frustration. He'd almost accidentally let it slip that Madelaline de Barreau was the man's _wife_.

 _Not yet, not YET, you fool_ , he had to remind himself, cursing himself for not minding his own tongue. He exhaled slowly and spoke.

"That…girl outside. Would _she_ want this for her sister? A _fine_ way to win her affections indeed, _killing_ her own sister. What on _earth_ did you _think_ you were going to do with her, hmm, present her _head_ as a token of wanting to enter into a courtship with the Barreau girl,” Rumple’s teeth chattered as he spoke his words. He could feel his throbbing heartbeats break his throat, and electric, tingling spasms flooded his fingertips that he tried to hide by folding his arms behind his back.

He had to practically bite down on his tongue not to divulge any information regarding his future with the young Barreau woman, at least not any that the priest did not already know for himself. He could see in the man's blue eyes that had darkened, almost cerulean in color, that he'd go to any lengths for Madellaine Renee de Barreau, to protect her, even if it meant killing the blonde lass's own sister.

He knew very little of Madellaine de Barreau from the histories that he'd managed to pry up. Only that her husband had been incredibly protective of her, and the pair lived a quiet, private life somewhere away from all of this mess.

Rumple almost rolled his eyes to himself. _Jones men and their fondness for blondes_ , he thought darkly, though he was forced out of his musings as Darius spoke.

“ _Why_? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t _kill_ this witch, monsieur,” Darius Barret growled, flitting his gaze back towards Maria, who now knelt on the floor beside a cowering and terrified poor LeFou, still chained and shackled and looking even more terrified in front of the priest, this holy man of God Himself than he ever had when with Maria.

“Because then _you_ would be no better than _her_ ,” Rumple answered pointedly, motioning towards Madellaine’s sister with a jerk of his head. “I must confess, I don’t know the young woman with whom you’re so enraptured, but something tells me she would not want that for you, sir.”

Darius blinked owlishly across the way at Rumple, though once he had recovered himself, shook his head and shot another withering glance at the blonde-haired consort and lover of the Prince who’d kidnapped Belle and Quasi, she who bore such a striking resemblance to Madellaine that it sickened him just to look at her.

“It really does not concern me,” he said bitterly, resenting every word he spoke, yet feeling as though he had no choice in the matter. “ _I_ am not the one that this wench almost _killed_ , sir.”

Rumple nodded, though the moment of silence didn’t last long as Darius turned his head to the side to cough to clear his throat, before turning back to look at Rumple, his blue eyes narrowed in contemplation.

“Have we _met_ before? You seem… _familiar_ ,” Darius spoke softly, a muscle in his angular jaw twitching as his blue eyes made a quick scan of Rumple, which the warlock did not appreciate. It made him feel uneasy.

Rumple felt his eyes widen in shock. _Oh, damn. Oh, gods, not now._ He hoped the priest and former soldier would not notice the light pink blush speckling along his cheeks as he pointedly looked away from him. He felt like after everything that had happened in the last hour, he really needed a moment.

“Ah, no, you do not. You might have seen me wandering about the streets perhaps, but I sought you after seeing… _that_.” He waved his hands wildly back in the direction he came from. Darius slowly nodded, some of his suspicions slowly melting off his face.

“Man has a name?” Darius Barret asked him— _no, Jones,_ Rumple had to remind himself. _Man’s a Jones but doesn’t know it yet_ , Rumple told himself calmly.

“Ah…Monsieur…Gold,” he finished lamely, wracking his brain for a fake name that he could use, and opted for one that was familiar to him.

The more Rumple talked, much to the man’s relief, the more Darius’s anger slowly ceased. He let out a haggard sigh and kicked over a chair for Rumple to sit in, while he maintained his restless pacing in front of his now-prisoners as Maria de Barreau and LeFou were struck dumb.

The warlock saw Darius give a start an unusual last name, though Rumple relaxed as he swore something in the man’s face softened a bit.

“What do you _want_ of me, Gold?” he snapped. “Is there something I can do for you?” he questioned, slowly beginning to sound more like his old self, the kind, quiet, if not a little bit shy personality that the Barreau girl would fall in love with if she hadn’t started to feel that way for him already.

“To _help_ you. To…be a _friend_ ,” Rumple answered hastily as he took to sit half his weight leaning over the edge of his chair and folded his fingers together as he looked at Darius practically glaring daggers at Maria. “You want your lady love and your friends back, I _know_ that. I can see it. I would like to _help_ you.”

He paused, unsure how much he could reveal. He knew at some point, the man’s heritage would have to be revealed, but he suspected the man’s sole focus was getting Madellaine and Belle and the monster back here in the cathedral where they rightfully belonged. He gave his head a curt shake to clear it.

 _No_. The confession would have to wait until such a time when things were quieter, and tempers weren't heated to the point of almost boiling over hotly. Rumple sighed. “If looks could carve out _lungs_ , the wench over here would be _dead_ before she could blink and open her pretty little mouth to scream for help, then.”

“Stupid woman,” the handsome priest snarled, looking towards Maria, who flinched though she did not look away. “Does your Prince think you dead? He surely will when you don't arrive back at the castle with the other _soldiers_ ,” he questioned, spitting the last word as though it were poison that had settled and lingered upon his tongue, his narrowed, glacier-cold gaze devoid of any emotion other than rage and pure, unbridled rancor flitting from Rumpelstiltskin to Maria.

Maria made an odd little strangled noise at the back of her throat. “My Prince sees what he believes. And I am here, monsieur, am I not?” Soon, the handsome priest that was smitten with her sister asked a question that made Maria’s sky-blue eyes widen in abject shock and horror.

“Your Prince’s castle, wench. You were employed there under his service. How much do you know of your Prince’s estate?” he questioned.

“What…?” Maria blinked owlishly up at Darius, feeling quite certain her ears had deceived her, that she was mishearing things. “ _What_ …?”

“If you don’t want your wretched miserable life to end _right_ here, right _now_ , then you’re going to tread down this path by telling me what you know. How to breach her walls, how many guards are posted at each gate, the length of the dungeons, every last detail I want to know, wench. Think of it as your retribution against the Prince for discarding you so easily without so much as care for your feelings.”

Maria felt the familiar chill that had been plaguing her ever since she realized she was no longer the apple of her Prince's cold blue eyes. She could not understand whether or not it was fear or excitement that coursed through her veins and burgeoned the pit of her stomach, but she knew one thing: she wanted this. Oh, the beauty of vengeance.

This man, this priest, had spared for her life and asked for her cooperation, however temporary an alliance would be between them, with which Maria quickly nodded her head in agreement, coupled with a gleaming sparkle of intrigue in her exhausted, cracked blue eyes.

Darius turned towards Madellaine’s sister, now in full attention.

“Help me sack the castle, get my friends back, help me save the woman I care for, and _maybe_ I’ll think about _sparing_ your wretched life. That is if you want to continue this stupid device against the lady Belle but turn it against your prince who I can tell, in your eyes, cast you out. If _not_ , I won’t take it against you, but either way, I could have you sent to the Palace of Justice, where you’ll most likely _hang_ for treason then, wench.”

The former soldier’s words were just enough to inspire a flicker of fear in the blonde woman’s now-pallid complexion as she heard his words.

“What _promise_ could I give you, Father? This bite wound won’t let me walk far,” she murmured, shrinking back against the cold stone wall as far as she could possibly go. “I’m in no condition to go _anywhere_ , monsieur.”

“I had your life spared, didn’t I? I’ve not killed you. _Yet_ ,” he added darkly, a shadow of anger flitting across his strong features as he glowered.

He cast a wary glance towards Rumple, who quickly nodded.

“You say you wish to help me?” Darius queried, and only when the man known as Gold to him nodded did Father Darius continue speaking.

"Yes," Rumple answered simply. It was the only thing he could say.

“Good. I'll welcome the help and the company. it's a long trek to this Prince's estate. I know it well, but we'll need to hurry. I’ll need another man along to mind this wench,” he spat, no small amount of disgust in his voice for the older Barreau sibling. “If you wouldn’t mind then, heading to the kitchens, third door on your left, down the hall just there, and ask one of the nuns, her name is Alice, you’ll know her when you see her. Pretty thing, grey hair, ornery mouth like a sailor. Get her to ready some supplies and then go get my horse from the stables. He’s a black Friesian steed. Goes by Snowball. And _no_ ,” he barked in a rough, hoarse voice when he noticed Rumple making an odd noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh through his nose as he shuffled towards the doorway. “I didn’t pick the bloody name. It’s Judge Frollo’s old beast, but nobody else would have him, so he falls under _my_ care now. He doesn’t normally take kindly to other men but _me_ , but give him a carrot, he’ll go with you quietly. Alice will get you one,” he commanded, the edges of his voice hardened.

Rumple nodded and turned around towards the doors, though before he shuffled out the doorway, Darius had him on hold, though his statement was not directed towards him or the short, stout fellow, but rather that of Madellaine de Barreau’s older sister, Maria. Rumple froze.

“They say that love is the death of a person’s duty, girl,” Darius said, beginning a visible show of pretending to preen at his nail’s cuticles.

Maria swallowed down thickly past a lump in her throat, feeling her heart as drums against her chest of bone and cartilage. The strange fellow clad in a set of black robes now lingering in the doorway was throwing them an all-knowing little smile. She licked her lips to moisten them and answered between locked teeth.

“I have no love left for the Prince, sir.”

“Good girl.” Darius Barret had not smiled, Rumple noticed, seemingly unimpressed or perhaps unconvinced of Maria’s answer.

He gladly watched as Maria de Barreau’s face fell, her shoulders slumping forward in defeat as perhaps she realized the precariousness of the predicament that she was in if she did not help the man do what he wanted, that she was sure to be sentenced to prison and executed.

This forlorn look on the young woman’s face prompted the priest to ask the girl one final question, the words tumbling unchecked from his lips before he could stop himself. A phrase that made even Rumple shiver.

“And what about your _sister_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. Gotta love plot bunnies coming to you in the shower LOL. I do wonder how Darius will react when he learns he's not a Barret. Eek. I wouldn't want to be around for that* conversation. Poor Rumple.
> 
> The next chapter is finally much-awaited, Belle meets the Prince, only to discover he is not quite* as she remembers him and is very much a beast.


	60. The Beauty Meets the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the moment that has been much long-awaited in my mind! Belle meets the Beast and as is expected, is full of sass! XD

**CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE**

Quasi had thought death was supposed to have been more painful than…whatever _this_ was. But then again, he was certain he was far from any glorious Heaven. He seemed caught in a vicious, churning tide. It was almost more than he could possibly bear. His muscles attempted to writhe in agony, but his aching arm and leg from where that blonde-haired _harlot_ had shot him hurt like _hell_ , keeping him pinned in place, lying, waiting for what came next.

He wallowed in his own misery, alone in his eternal chasm, aching for his wife. It was only the memory of his sweet Belle that would be his comfort forever if he were to succumb to his wounds, and still, he counted himself fortunate. 

So intently did he focus on the remembrance of her sensation upon his wretched skin that his tormented mind through his haze of agony could almost conjure her image, staring at him with wide, brimming eyes full of worry.

For the few sweet precious moments, his hazy mind would allow, he enjoyed the image of the lovely brunette now trying to peer into his eyes and imagine that none of this had happened. He wanted to float here in the darkness forever, along with Belle, savoring the moment.

But it didn’t stop. His mind and awareness continued to surface upwards, until breaking free from the mire that wracked his body began to bloody hurt, worse than anything he’d ever felt in his entire life. Worse than any beating or punishment Master Frollo had ever inflicted upon him, even. 

His leg and arm felt like they were on fire. Even the last time master had whipped him, feeling the harsh, stinging pelt of the rope burning into his back had not been so fierce and brutal.

The worst part of it all, however, was the pain of watching the lovely image of his wife begin to leave him, her warm embrace slipping through his arms. 

He wanted to scream, from heartache, from pain, from fear at not knowing where he was, what happened. What was _left_ if not even the memory of his Belle?

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a horrible, blinding light that felt like someone was holding a lighted candelabra entirely too close to his face burned itself into his hazy vision as he fought to hold onto the memory of his wife. 

It was dim like a candle yet agonizing regardless. It very nearly blinded the poor bell ringer. 

His chest felt burdened, constricting, and tight, as though a chunk of stone had been set upon his abdomen. The air shocked his lungs as he gasped for the fresh, biting cold taste of oxygen.

The force of it snapped his eyes open as Quasi stared up at the stone of a dark ceiling. His chest heaved as his heart tried to find its rhythm. He tested his muscles, or more specifically, his wounded arm and leg in this case, but they refused to budge, and every attempt he made sent an explosion of pain through him. 

Quasi shuddered to think what fresh hell awaited him now and lay back against a mountain of pillows in dread, waiting for his suffering to begin, wondering what had become of his lovely wife.

Then he heard Belle’s sweet, succulent voice in his ears. “… _to me…come back to me, Quasi_ ….” Her voice was pleading, though her voice sounded faint and muffled, as if underwater. _No_. Quasi’s mind searched for desperate understanding as his eyelids could no longer stand the strain of staying open and promptly shut again.

It couldn’t be true. He wanted to shout. Had that harlot killed his wife? He’d lost consciousness and after that, everything was hazy. He could barely breathe, but surely, if anyone would have found a way to survive, it was Belle. If anyone would have found a way to avert tragedy, it was his wife.

Nothing ever stopped his love. Somehow, Belle managed to overcome every obstacle thrown in her path, no matter how hard, and thrive. She’d proven herself to be a fierce woman in her own right, steadfast, brave, loyal, and loving to a wretch like him. But…if she was here in this place with him now, then what did this all _mean_?

Again, Quasimodo fought to open his eyes. The effort very nearly sapped him of what little strength he had left. He had to try. He had to know what all of this meant. He forced his lids open, a grunt escaping his throat as he did so. Their sheer torture was met by the harrowing, burning pain of the candlelight now thrust into his face was more, the heat almost unbearable. His hoarse throat screamed out against the action. Notre Dame’s bell ringer tried in vain to raise his arms, to shield his burning vision with his hand, but his body nevertheless remained motionless despite his most valiant attempts. He cursed himself for not being stronger, but then he heard Belle.

He froze, straining his ears to listen for more sounds. “ _That’s it…to me…come back to me, love_.” Belle’s soft, shy voice cut through the haze of his mind again. “ _Fight it. Come back_ ,” she cried, almost sounding to the point of tears, from somewhere that Quasi could not see, that he could not follow her.

Quasi heard his wife again. Belle _wasn’t_ dead. That meant, _he_ was not dead. He was _alive_. She was alive, they were both _safe_.

A series of memoirs flooded back into his consciousness. He’d been standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Belle in front of the blonde wench who’d born a striking resemblance to Madellaine. He wondered if there was a familial connection there. The pain and terror overtook his mind as he could see his wife’s face, her eyebrows creased together with worry and pain, her tears falling uncontrollably the moment the first arrow from the wench’s crossbow had fired and penetrated into his left thigh.

Exhausted, he could fight against the urge no more. He knew he had to be alive, but he didn’t wish to be. he’d failed yet again to protect Belle. The men that had been with that blonde-haired vicious bitch of a woman had been guards, soldiers. He’d seen the royal crest of arms on the breastplates of their armor.

He now knew where they were. The Prince’s estate. _Oh, god! Oh, god, what have I done_?!? Quasi’s mind screamed at him until all he could hear was the blood roaring in his eardrums. He figured a vicious bastard like their country’s prince was sure to give Belle an ultimatum, and he prayed that his wife would do whatever it would take to save her life and their babe’s. There was no purpose for him without her, but…but…

His heart sank lower than the depths from which he’d crawled. Considering his current physical condition, how even just the slightest spasm of one of his fingers caused him to see white-hot flares of lightning behind his closed lids, he could not very well whisk his pregnant wife away from the Prince’s castle.

Not like _this_. This meant because he had failed to protect Belle outside of Notre Dame, then the two of them were trapped. _With that—that beast_ , he thought viciously, grinding his teeth so hard that he heard an audible _clack_! as his molars locked.

He let himself go in his anguish and emotional turmoil. He wanted to fall back into the darkness, to escape this haze and pain. As it surged towards him again, he hoped it would engulf him and Quasi would just…drift away and cease to exist now. If he was alive, and they were well and truly trapped, then it meant nothing if it meant that his very existence put his wife and their unborn babe at risk, for the bastard Prince wouldn’t allow their union to remain. Of that much, the bell ringer knew.

Quasi relaxed into the void that threatened to come for him. He prayed that it would end his sorrow and his suffering. He wanted no more of it. All Notre Dame’s lonely, forlorn bell ringer wished for was to spend eternity with the memory of the one he had married, the woman he loved, his Belle, his French Rose, for she was sure to never forgive him for failing to protect her life.

Belle was sure to never look upon him again with the tenderness and love she had once had, and the thought alone was more than Quasi could bear. As precious sleep found the bell ringer was more, and under the watchful and vigilant eye of his wife, he whispered the only word that meant anything to him.

“Belle,” he sighed, and then succumbed to a night of deep sleep, and let the darkness consume him, where he knew no more.

* * *

Belle, as she watched her husband slip into an uneasy sleep, felt as though the darkness were closing in around her, pulling her down and under. She had already fought so hard, and now, her husband’s strength was failing him. She’d woken from her own sleep to find him fitfully twitching in his deep, troubled slumber. Her lids were heavy still, her face pale and groggy from being woken prematurely by her husband’s suffering, but she could not allow herself to rest, even as the man’s breaths slowed.

Belle knew she could not give up. She would never give up. She wanted him to recover so desperately, Quasi and their babe was the only good thing left in her otherwise lonesome life now. She did not know where Madellaine had been taken, and as she glanced around the room, she knew where she was, somehow.

The smell of spiced wine made her nostrils flare. The serving girl that had brought her here during a moment that Belle suffered from a split second of lucidity, had opened her eyes and had looked around, a maid by the name of Collette, had bowed to her, and then left the moment that a strange man, a doctor by the looks of him, had finished, speaking to Belle in hushed tones, though what he had said to her, she’d not been able to make it out.

Shadows played hide and seek along the bricked walls as a fire in the hearth flickered. She thought it odd how fortunate one could be to have a fireplace in their room, but then Belle remembered where she and Quasi had been brought, and suddenly the concept didn’t seem quite so ridiculous to her.

Cinders on the hearth glowed where a thick bear pelt rug lay in front of that immediately made Belle shiver in revulsion, thinking of her former husband. Of Gaston and his love for the hunt.

A five-pronged candelabra was lighted on the table alongside a slice of what appeared to be a grain cake and a tin decanter of red wine as dark as the night that she couldn’t drink.

Not while pregnant, she knew, instinctively feeling her hand rest over her baby, thankfully hidden by her ivory chemise and light sky-blue overdress and bodice.

On the wall to the left of the fireplace and bear pelt rug hung a tapestry of galloping horses, their hooves crashing against mud and water, a golden-haired man leading the group of riders, and as she squinted her eyes and narrowed her gaze upon her scrutiny of the painting, she shivered.

She _knew_ that man.

“ _The Prince_ …” she breathed in a low voice. At this, her insides coiled, and Belle forced herself to tear her gaze away from the tapestry, feeling little droplets of sweat start to shimmer along her temples. “He brought us here, but…why?” she whispered in a horrified voice, visibly wincing upon hearing the faltering crack and dip of her voice as it shook.

Belle let out a tiny sigh and reached for the wooden basin set upon a small wooden table to the right of the bed and wrung out the rag and began to sponge at Quasi’s forehead. He was feverish, drops of sweat sliding down his angular, strong features.

A voice coming from the doorway startled the poor brunette, causing her to yelp in surprise and almost dropped the rag she was using on her lap as she sat perched on the edge of the bedside, doing what she could to tend to her bell ringer, her love.

“Do you _like_ it, mademoiselle?” came a man’s quiet voice, causing Belle to immediately peer behind her shoulder at the source of the voice.

She blinked owlishly at him, and as the figure stepped from the shadows, she caught sight of a familiar head of golden-blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail and remembered the man’s name. Lumiere, his name is Lumiere, she reminded herself, biting down on the wall of her cheek. She did not know how long Monsieur Lumiere had been hovering in the doorway, staring at her, staring at her husband, and sponging his forehead.

He was leaning against the door’s post, his arms folded across his chest, and had a change of clothing from black to grey.

There was a shift in the man’s countenance that Belle wasn’t entirely sure that she liked. She’d not interacted much with this man, only here and there, but enough to know he was quite kind, though the fact there was no smile on his usually-jovial face bothered her, and Belle couldn’t quite put her finger on just why.

There was no smile on Monsieur Lumiere’s face. No amusement. No relief at finding her and her husband alive. Nothing evil. And Belle was even more alarmed at that. She quickly looked around again, making a quick scan of the room, before nodding. Lumiere moved to cross the threshold into the room, and the heavy thud of the man’s boots sent her swallowing.

“ _Good_.” His voice echoed. “The master of this castle wants you to be _happy_ , Belle.” At his last word, Lumiere wobbled slightly, but immediately righted his posture and his expression.

Belle raised her thin eyebrows in alarm at the man’s change in his stance. “Are you alright, monsieur?” she questioned, not bothering to tamper down the note of concern in her voice as Lumiere awkwardly stood now in the middle of the bedroom, nervously fidgeting with his hands and not sure what to do next.

But Lumiere immediately waved her off and went to the table, picking up a heavily laden metal tray that she’d not noticed had been resting idly there before and made a show of pouring hot herbal tea into a slightly chipped little teacup and handing it to her. She was hesitant, hoping the Prince hadn’t ordered it to be poisoned but accepted the cup nonetheless as she silently watched Lumiere stride past him and on toward the windowsill.

Lumiere nursed his tea and struggled to collect his thoughts. “If there is anything you and your… _husband_ need, please see me, Monsieur Cogsworth, or Mrs. Potts. The three of us have been assigned to see to your every need, mademoiselle.”

Belle slowly nodded her head at all of the information, though as she tore her gaze away from Lumiere standing in a pensive and stoic manner at the edge of the windowsill and turned her gaze back towards her husband’s unconscious form, she felt a wave of churning anger begin to bubble to the surface within. She felt something ugly within her personality start to snap and give away, and the question tumbled unchecked from her lips before she could stop herself from asking it of the kind monsieur.

“And what of Quasi’s needs, monsieur? Will my husband’s needs be met as _well_ , or does your master intend to separate us?” She scoffed at Lumiere. There was a mockery in her tone at the way she addressed the Prince’s servant, and from the glint that appeared briefly in Monsieur Lumiere’s light hazel eyes, Belle knew he had heard it. He quickly composed himself, however.

Belle watched, momentarily awestruck as she watched as Lumiere gave a visible start at her words, turning slightly at the waist to look at the young inventor’s daughter with a rather furtive, guilty look on his face, and Belle immediately felt guilty. Lumiere had not deserved to be snapped at like this just now. She ducked her head in shame, a lock of her long dark braid coming undone and falling in front of her left eye like a curtain.

“My—my apologies, monsieur, I—I should not have said…I—it’s just that….” Her voice broke as it faltered as she turned her attention back towards her husband and continued diligently sponging at his forehead with the cool, damp cloth, hoping that the coolness coupled with her tender touch would succeed in bringing down her husband’s fever. “My love is ill.”

Lumiere paused, offering a slight incline of his head, signaling to Belle that he had wordlessly accepted her apology. “You’ve…interacted with the Master thus far a few times now, young mademoiselle,” he began hesitantly, weaving his fingers together, suddenly looking nervous and skittish in her presence, which Belle thought odd, for his eyes quickly darted behind his shoulder, as though half expecting the Prince himself to lunge from the shadows like a panther stalking its prey. “What do you think of the Prince, milady?” he asked, sounding curious.

She shivered at the monsieur’s query, and Belle, despite her best efforts to contain her honesty, found that she could not. “ _Cruel_. Your Prince would _kidnap_ my husband and I, and escort us back here, treat my love’s wounds, only to _separate_ us?”

Though Lumiere had not come outright and confessed that separation was the master of the castle’s intent, there was a darkening look of anger dawning in the man’s now-narrowed hazel eyes that all but confirmed Belle’s suspicions in her belly. She saw Lumiere unmoved. And he placed his empty teacup on its saucer and set it on the windowsill he stood by.

After which, he turned towards Belle and clasped his arms behind his back as he calmly approached the bed. Belle stiffened, though made no move to get up and leave her husband’s bedside.

“Mademoiselle, I _caution_ you to take better care of what you _say_ ,” he began hesitantly, though before he could say anymore, another voice, a familiar, deep baritone, rent the air behind them, causing Lumiere to immediately fall silent and stop.

“ _Enough_.”

Just a one-word command, but more than enough to cause the entire room to go silent. It was entirely too dark for Belle’s narrowed eyes to make out the figure now standing in the doorway of their room the master of the castle had put her and Quasi up in upon escorting them back to his estate, though she recognized the listless, dull baritone of the Prince.

Lumiere, for his part, went immediately rigid and hadn’t moved a finger, trying to understand whether the command was meant for him or the object seated on the edge of the bed that was the Beast-Prince’s current affections. And as Lumiere turned around, a pair of glacier-ice-cold blue eyes threw daggers at him.

“Do I need to say it a _second_ time, Lumiere? I really _hate_ saying it a second time,” came the low voice that caused the fine hairs on the back of Belle’s neck to stand upright, in a tone that the young French woman could only describe as a wolfish growl.

With this command lingering in the air between them, Lumiere turned his back on Belle, though not before shooting her a rather pained and apologetic look and opted to clear the room, brushing past the towering, shrouded silhouette of his master.

She raised her eyebrows in alarm at the Prince’s towering form that clung to the shadows of the threshold of the entryway, seemingly reluctant to come into the light cast by the fire in the hearth of the bedroom. She supposed she ought to rise from her perch and curtsy to this Prince of their land, but it was honestly the furthest thing from her mind, considering what happened the last time the two of them had encountered one another out in the courtyard.

As she lifted her gaze and her dark brown eyes met the Prince’s familiar blue, the coals on her eyes were added with fuel.

She bared her teeth and let out a hiss as she swore she saw the dark shadow move, looking like he meant to come near her.

“ _You_.”

The word was spat from her mouth more than spoken, trembling with rage, the venom dripping from her lips. The man remained unmoved and still in the shadows, though the craziness in the pale blue irises, mere pinpricks in the dark, stalking her like a panther in the shadows, was all the judgment of this land’s Prince that Belle needed.

“How _dare_ you show your face to me again after what you _did_! Oh, if you think that I would _willingly_ leave my husband for _you_ , you—you boorish _fiend_ , you witless _wonder_ , then you’re _wrong_! What do you _want_ of me?” she snapped, her anger swelling to the surface. “Why did you bring my husband and I _here_ … _Your_ _Highness_?” she quickly added, sensing how the blue eyes staring back at her from the darkness widened in anger for a moment and then narrowed.

Her eyes widened as she heard the Prince’s unmistakable baritone chuckle and hearing the Prince laugh caused her heartbeat to rise up into the column of her throat and get stuck.

His laughing at her and her husband was most assuredly _not_ a good sign, and the interactions with the Prince of these lands Belle had shared had admittedly been brief, but they had been more than enough to cause Belle to feel incredibly uneasy within the man’s company.

Something in the Prince made her cringe. Belle couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what that was; the crazed glare, or the way the people around him kowtowed and bent over backward to serve him, or the peculiar sense of unease the man evoked. Maybe it was a combination of all three of those things.

Was he still pursuing her, was _that_ it? Despite surely able to see her small but noticeable baby bump and catching the glint of the yellow gold band she wore on her left ring finger? Belle sighed, turning her head away tiredly, thinking he would not answer her, when his voice cut through her thoughts, shattering her concentration on forcing Quasi back to his full stamina.

“When did you come to this strange country?” he asked, not sounding angry with her for her little outburst, which was a far cry from what Belle had admittedly been expecting, and the fact that the Prince would not come out from the shadows and refused to let her see him, look the monster in the eyes, was more than a little unnerving, and that he had deflected her question by asking one of his own greatly unnerved Belle to no end in sight.

“ _What_?” she exclaimed sourly, slowly swiveling her head in the direction of the Prince’s voice as he continued to hover in the doorway. She diligently rang out the rag one last time and sponged her husband’s forehead before setting the rag back in the wooden basin and shifted her position on the bed, letting her hand ghost along the top of his hair before drifting down toward his gloved left hand, where she rested her hand delicately over the top of his, hoping that, in his own way, even in sleep, he felt her.

Belle couldn’t be sure, but she swore she heard the Prince from his place in the shadows let out a low, wolfish snarl of ire.

She bristled but held her ground. He could rage and scream at her all she liked. It would _not_ change her stance.

Belle was not about to be removed from her husband. No matter what. She stiffened as she heard the Prince speak again.

“Your accent. What sort of accent is that? It’s French, yes, but…I’ve never quite heard anything like that before. What is it?”

Belle paused, momentarily startled by his query. It didn’t sound malicious, at least not that she could detect. Merely curious. She wanted to favor silence as the only apt response, though there was a small part of her that told herself if she refused to answer any of this man’s questions, she would only make things worse, not for herself, but for Quasi, and her husband had already suffered enough on her account. She huffed in frustration and folded her arms across her chest, not missing a beat.

“ _Foreign_ ,” was all she answered in a cold and aloof voice.

“F…” She heard him let out a growl. Belle was barely able to keep the brief triumphant smirk from flitting across her lips, though somehow, by a miracle of God Himself, she repressed it. “You asked me what I _want_ of you, young belle,” the Prince snarled in a voice whose edges were clipped, suggesting the not-so-noble-nobleman was rapidly losing patience with Belle’s wit.

Belle slowly nodded. She had remembered. “What do you want of me?” she asked again, just in case his thick skull needed reminding, as she looked towards those icy pinpricks with dread.

“What do I _want_ from you?” the Prince’s voice asked, as though he could hardly believe what his ears were hearing from her. “I _want_ you to share my castle. To enjoy the splendors and spoils of living in a place where angels reside. To laugh at my jokes, to pour my wine when I’m of a mind to drink. To assist Mrs. Potts and the other maids in the cleaning. To be _mine_ , pretty little belle. For you to become my _princess_. You’ll want nothing.”

She scoffed at him and sharply turned her head away, forcing her attention back to her husband’s steadily sleeping form.

“What _I_ want, Your Highness is for my husband and me to be permitted to return home. Let us _go_. There is _nothing_ for you by keeping me here,” she spat, unable to quell the note of disgust from seeping its way unbidden to the surface of her quiet tones.

“You have nowhere else to _go_ , princess,” retorted the Prince’s voice, cold and of no emotion. “No one _else_ will take your _wretch_ in. You are not allowed to _leave_ this castle. Even if I were to let you both go, you’d not get within fifty feet into the Wolves’ Woods before the wolves would rip apart your pretty little limbs. And as for your wretch of a husband here, the people would stone him simply for his _looks_. Like it or not, you’re _stuck_ here, Belle.”

Belle silently seethed, squeezing her eyes shut before they flung open and she glowered at those pair of pinpricks in the dark.

Like it or not, she knew the Prince spoke the truth.

Even if they were to run into the Wolves’ Woods again, the Prince would simply send more of his own after her, and the vicious cycle would constantly begin again anew with seemingly no end in sight. And if by some miracle of God, they were to hide from the Prince and his men, to be taken in out of the kindness of some stranger’s heart and given shelter from the bitter cold, they would surely take one look at her husband’s unusual appearance and turn them away. They would see her pregnancy as an abomination, a _curse_.

Her silent anger seethed poisonously in the Prince’s direction, where he still remained shrouded in the shadows. She and Quasi were as the man’s prisoners here, not allowed leave, of that she was certain. When she did manage to regain control of her voice, she was surprised at how it shook.

Belle swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat before turning to face Quasi, still remaining peacefully asleep. She sincerely hoped that it stayed that way. His wounds were going to be quite gruesome to recover from, and more to the point, she wasn’t sure what the man’s temper would be like if he were awake right now and to hear this not-so-nobleman of a Prince talk to _his_ wife this way.

“What of my husband?” she said, the dread creeping into the pit of her stomach. “And Madellaine? M—Maria’s sister, what have your men _done_ with my _friend_?”

A vent of adrenaline and panic flooded through her veins as bile rose in the back of her throat that she was forced to swallow. Come to think of it, she’d not seen a single glimpse of Madellaine de Barreau since waking or heard mention of her.

“The girl?” There was a pause. A beat. And then he seemed to recover. “She’s quite safe. Sequestered down below until her precious older sister gets back with my hound she took off with,” was all he said. Belle figured she wasn’t going to get anything more specific than that. “Though…” he paused, lowering his voice, and Belle couldn’t repress the violent shiver that clawed its way up and down her spine. “I can guarantee your friend and your husband won’t be _alive_ for _long_ if you _don’t_ do as I say, Belle.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Surely you _wouldn’t_!” she shouted, not bothering to mind proper edict as her stomach churned in sick dread at the implications of what this Prince was implying to her. She trailed off as her gaze met the shrouded figure’s icy-blue eyes, now certain that this not-so-noble Prince who had more or less kidnapped her and Quasi to bring them here would indeed slaughter Madellaine and her husband if Belle did not comply.

Belle very nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard Quasi give a low, agonized, and feverish moan in the midst of his fitful sleep. He stirred once or twice, shifting to his uninjured side, but didn’t not wake. Belle’s heart broke at the utterly helpless sound.

“Oh, sweet, lovely, Belle,” the Prince’s deep baritone corrected. “Be assured, little dove, I will do with you and your bastard of a wretch you dare to call your husband whatever it is that I _want_. I am the _master_ of this castle, and it pleases me to look upon you, Belle. You are easily the prettiest girl in this entire castle, in the whole city of Paris, and I would be… _honored_ if you would join me for _dinner_. Otherwise, your husband here, well…”

Belle flinched, hating the implications of what this Prince was implying. That he would have his men kill Quasi if she did not obey the man’s commands. She was now a servant under his whims and completely at his mercy, expected to appear at the nobleman’s side and do his bidding, his cleaning, for the Prince held her husband’s life in his hands.

She understood now why the pair of them had been brought back to the castle. She knew what this Prince had planned for her, her husband, and her unborn babe. She would beg and grovel at his feet if that’s what it took. Though before she could even open her mouth to speak, she was overwrought with a horrible, fire-seed of anger. She felt confident that so many months now around Quasi and the man’s sometimes boiling temper was beginning to rub off on her, at least a little bit.

“Why are you _here_?” she spoke through gritted teeth.

“Why ever _not_ , pretty little belle? You have to get used to being around the master of this castle, Belle.” The Prince’s voice loomed throughout the air, smooth like butter on a breadknife.

Belle bristled, turning her attention back towards the only thing she wanted to look at in the room. Quasi. She let out a frustrated sigh through her nose and gingerly stroked his fiery red bangs out of his eyes, carding her slender fingers through his hair.

“Why are you _here_?” Belle asked again, hardening her voice.

“You owe me an _apology_.” Every warning bell in her mind chiming their warning tolls at her screamed, ringing with a riot.

She felt her breaths catching in her throat and almost choked on her own tongue. _She_ owed _him_ an apology?!? What about him? He’d almost been allowed to get away with assaulting her in the courtyard of his precious rose gardens, and he was demanding an apology from her as though she’d been wrong?

“You _disgust_ me,” she hissed, her lips bitter to the bone.

The Prince made a ‘tsking’ noise with his tongue and breathed out what was supposed to be laughter, though the only thing the gesture succeeded in doing was freezing her insides, as she swore the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees or so.

“You truly are _many_ things, milady,” the Prince mused, sounding torn between the desire to chuckle or admonish her. “Politeness, however, not one of them. But well…I am a _patient_ prince, princess, and understanding nobles such as myself are most difficult to satiate.” This time, he did let out a chuckle. "But fear not, Mademoiselle. Something tells me you are up for the challenge."

She swallowed her head inclined, as her dark eyes were unmoved from Quasi’s sleeping, peaceful, and in her eyes, handsome face, her face nonchalant. “You do not know me, Your Highness,” she hissed. “You beast,” she growled through gritted, clenched teeth.

Though she didn’t see it, she felt the shadowy figure flinch at her last word that she had placed much emphasis on. “I’ll imagine you did not say that, Belle,” she heard the Prince snarl.

“What, ‘ _beast_?’” Belle asked innocently, summoning the courage to face those blue eyes, little more than pinpricks in the dark corridor, that bore a thousand weights, feeling as though the eyes, the window to the man’s soul were bearing straight into her. “I’m sorry, monsieur, that was uncouth of me. My father once told me to address people as to who, or in your case, what they really are.”

“And now your father _rots_ in a grave somewhere,” he spat.

Belle’s blood churned, as did the Prince’s, though for an entirely different reason. Tears stung and blurred at the edges of her vision, and wrath burned on him as the two locked their gazes. She wracked her brain for something to say. “You wish for me to join you for _dinner_ without granting me the courtesy of looking you in the eyes. It’s quite _rude_ , Your Highness, if I may speak freely,” she snapped, not bothering to mind her manners around this man who’d already proven himself to be a monster.

He scoffed, and though Belle couldn’t see it, she imagined this Prince rolling his eyes in jest and minor amusement at her ire. “You have got a tongue that _must_ be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends, pretty little dove. Something tells me you would find a way to still _speak_ even if my men had cut out your tongue.”

She lowered her lashes, but only so that the Prince would not see the red in her eyes as her temper and her fear swelled to truly dangerous levels, seeping up to her chest as a fiery warmth. “I will join you,” she confessed quietly, and as she blearily lifted her chin to look at the man’s piercing eyes of blue, she was surprised and momentarily taken aback by how round and awestruck they were. For a moment, Belle herself was startled.

Clearly, this Prince had not expected her to agree to his demand to join him tonight for dinner. Though before she lost her nerve and her resolve, she blew out a deep breath and continued.

“I will join you,” she repeated, raising her voice to ensure that she was heard. “But I have my _own_ conditions. You must _promise_ me that my husband will be allowed to remain here by my side, not to be separated from me. And that you will allow no harm to come to the babe growing within me. I _beg_ of you,” she implored, feeling herself begin to grow frantic. “I beseech you. If my husband and I are to remain here, let me bear my babe.” Frightened tears began streaming down her face, as she unconsciously stretched her slender, shaking fingers over her growing but still a small baby bump. Desperately, she continued her plea, weeping. “Send the child back to the cathedral with its father when it’s born, and you can do anything you want to me,” she beseeched, her chest almost heaving for calm. “Just let my baby _live_. And allow my husband to stay until… afterward.”

It did not occur to Belle until after the words flew from her mouth, words that she never thought she would say let alone think, that this was perhaps the second time in her entire life that she had begged. The first had been for Gaston to spare her father’s life, and now, she was asking a similar request of this…this Prince.

Belle squeezed her eyes tightly shut, fighting back the urge to vomit. She could only pray to God if He were listening to an outcast like her that this Prince still had a shred of mercy in him. There was a heavy silence that followed Belle’s desperate plea. She swore she heard shuffling sounds, and she thought the Prince was turning on his heels to flee without giving her an answer, but that did not appear to be the case. He appeared to be attempting to stick as close to the shadows as he possibly could.

Belle swallowed down past the constricting lump in her throat, blinking back her tears. “I will stay here with you, monsieur. I give you my _word_. But let me _see_ you. Come into the light.” She let her voice fall flat as her words slowly tapered off.

There was a long pause, and she thought the Prince would not comply with her simple request to allow her to see him better.

But the moment she heard the man take one step forward, over the threshold, and step into the doorway of her and Quasi’s accommodations, Belle could not stifle the gasp of surprise and abject horror that squeaked past her lips despite her effort to quell it. The Prince that she had known before was gone. In his place was a _beast_.

This had to be the result of witchcraft, some sort of horrible gypsy curse.

The creature was huge and grotesque with matted hair and huge twisting horns that protruded upward and twisted, appearing to stretch to the heavens, or at least the ceiling in this case. The Beast stood on its knotted haunches and stooped as its wrinkled face stared at Belle with a look of hatred in his icy eyes.

 _His eyes, oh, his eyes_! Belle thought wildly, biting down on her bottom lip. They were the only thing left of the former Prince that was even remotely human, though they were cold, dead eyes.

The creature twisted his lips into a vicious-looking sneer as he no doubt had caught wind of the horrified expression on Belle’s face as her complexion became pallid before turning dark green. A thousand and one questions burned on the tip of her tongue, first and foremost, what on earth had happened to him to make him…so—so _monstrous_ and _hideous_ , but when she opened her mouth to speak, all that came out was a bunch of stammers.

The Prince, noticing this, narrowed his gaze and did not give the young mademoiselle a chance to speak her mind at all.

“You gave me your word, and now _I_ give you _mine_ ,” the Beast answered lowly in a growl, his twisted grin contorting his furry face into something resembling a pained grimace as he spoke, as though every word he uttered was causing him pain.

“Your… _husband_ ,” he spat the word as though it were poison on his tongue, “will be allowed to remain here alongside you. He will work alongside the guards outside or in the cellars below. I _don’t_ want him frightening the rest of my staff with that _hideous_ visage,” he snarled, a flicker of disgust clouding his blue irises. _You’re one to talk_ , Belle thought meanly through fresh tears, though at least this time, they were tears of utter relief.

The Beast breathed out long before rolling his neck to crack it and turning away from Belle’s perch, where she remained unmoved at the edge of her husband’s bedside.

“This conversation has too many clichés, princess. I’m afraid it has begun to bore me.”

He turned towards the door, one paw on the doorframe to steady himself as he turned on his paws to go, though paused to risk one last look over his shoulder at the distraught young woman. He snorted and shook his head in disgust.

“There it is, little dove. That look. You’re getting to be quite good at this, you know. You think that just because I grant you permission to keep this…thing by your side gives you a semblance of freedom here?” the Beast-Prince breathed, almost sounding like he wasn’t quite believing it.

Belle didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“Be assured, princess, it does not,” the Beast corrected her, though Belle had said nothing to the creature by way of retort. “Be assured, I will do with you whatever I please. You are _much_ mistaken if you think you and the wretch have _any_ freedom here. You are in no position to ask for _anything_.” His baritone voice rose to match his angry mood. Belle sat trembling at the thought of what was to become of her tonight if she joined him for dinner. “But seeing you like this was worth cheering through the morn, little belle. But I can still wait until _tonight_ , milady,” he said softly.

His last word sounded almost too gleeful, almost stripping Belle’s insides off, and she swore the babe in her belly gave a kick. _Tonight_. She was expected to dine with this Beast…tonight? How she’d much rather throw herself out the window instead! “Monsieur,” she blurted out, cringing as she quickly realized she had forgotten to use the monster’s title.

He stopped midway to twist his horned head, the large horns protruding from his now-monstrous form casting an eerie shadow about the room as he turned to go. The Beast was still.

Belle paused, biting down on her lip. “… will you kill me after…after I’ve outdone my purpose, Your Highness?’ she asked.

Her voice sounded much too late and emotionless. It almost succeeded in painting everything in the room a dull grey. The Beast remained unstirred from his place in her doorway. Belle could only listen to the deafening silence that lingered in the air, which quickly became lost as she heard Quasi give out another low feverish moan as he shifted in his sleep.

“No, Belle,” he said at last, he was almost cruel in the tone that he used when speaking to her, which turned calmer. He glanced at Belle over his shoulder one last time before turning away and locking the door behind him, looking at her with his blue eyes a stark contrast of icy cold and scalding hot fire. “I will not.” And with that, he shut the door and locked them inside.

Belle swallowed thickly down past the lump in her throat the moment she heard the mechanisms of the lock shut, the Beast-Prince’s heavy footfalls receding. Her eyes glimmered with watery tears and she felt as if the whole world around her was about to crumble. She was grateful she was already seated on the bed as she felt the strength in her knees quickly give out beneath.

The world turned into a blur, so did all of the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was just gone. Belle paused, trying to hold back the strange feelings rumbling inside her but couldn’t. A lone tear traced down her cheek and just like that, the floodgates opened. So many tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down her face. Her chin trembled as if she were a little girl. She breathed heavier than she had before in her life.

Belle was gasping for air that simply wasn’t there. Her throat burned to form a silent scream. Was this what crying felt like? A part of her dying inside, and yet, the relief to feel it leave.

Though the sound of a voice, _his_ voice, the tenor-like tones of his music-like voice drifted through the air, causing her breaths to catch in her throat.

“ _Go_.”

Just a single word, but more than enough. Belle’s eyes, which had been closed, immediately flew open at the sound of that all-too-familiar sweet, low voice. Quasi was awake and looking at her. Yet as Belle searched the man’s pale face, she found two barely open and perceptive bright blue eyes and the tiny ghost of a smile flitting across his mostly-handsome face, though they’d widened just a fraction.

“Q—Quasi?” she choked out in a hoarse little squeak, unable to mask the sheer amount of shock and disbelief that had seeped its way to the surface of her soft and timid voice. “Is it…?”

“ _Go_ ,” he repeated, hoarsely as his voice sounded scratchy and raspy, still smiling faintly at his wife as one of his fingers gave a twitch. Belle immediately placed her left hand over the top of his and studied the glint of their yellow gold bands that reflected off the light from the flames of the fire in the heart that emanated. “Y—you’ve…a chance…to… _save_ yourself…and…the baby. You must do this… _Go_.”

Belle blinked, searching his face, wishing she could take the anguish from her husband’s features. She could barely manage to speak throughout her choking sobs but managed a weak reply.

“Y—you _heard_?” she whispered as awareness formed in her mind. _He must have woken up and overheard some of what was said_ , she thought, desperately searching his eyes for the truth.

All Quasi could manage was a weak little nod and a faint smile. “Every word, love,” he gasped out, his voice still too faint.

Much to her surprise, one of Quasi’s fingertips grazed over the wedding band on his wife’s ring finger, making sure Belle was looking at it as their hands interlocked, fitting together like the missing pieces of a chipped teacup. “Y—you made me a _promise_ , Belle, the night that we married, don't you remember it? You promised to always stand beside me, by our children,” he said, as his light blue eyes met Belle’s dark chocolate irises, his expression hardened and slightly steely as he looked at his wife. "You swore to obey my commands for the rest of your natural life. Well, here it is. I _command_ you to do whatever it takes to save your own life and our baby's. _Go_. Please don't make me tell you again," he weakly joked.

Her voice broke when she asked it, but Belle had to get the question out. “ _How_ …how am I supposed to go to _dinner_ with that—that _monster_?” she spat in disgust, anger clouding her features as her face twisted and contorted in grief and rage.

Her right hand instinctively drifted over her baby bump.

“Y—you _have_ to, love,” Quasi protested faintly. “I—if not for me, th—then do it for our baby. Protect yourself first. Don’t worry about me. I can…I can…take care of…of myself,” he gasped.

“But how? God, how could I possibly get that—that hideous beast to even like me well enough to convince him to let us go?”

Quasi just arched a brow and pointed at her wedding band once more as he collapsed his head back against the pillow, wearily closing his eyes and losing consciousness for a second time. His answer to his wife was clear and unmistakable just then.

 _Try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, Quasi as a supportive husband to Belle melts my heart. <3


	61. This Isn't Goodbye

**CHAPTER SIXTY**

Madellaine stood silently watching him. In her purple silk gown, she looked every bit the beauty from Magdala her name meant. Yet her sweet face was so sullen it sent a chill down Darius’s spine. Behind her, the Prince’s castle lay in a smoldering ruin caused by some unforeseen explosion. Her deep pale blue pleading irises pierced his soul. She mouthed his name, but he could not hear her voice. Darius itched to reach out, to feel her.

He stretched out a trembling hand to touch her face, to try to caress her cheek. He tried with all of his might, every ounce of strength that dwelled within him, but the distance between them only grew with each attempt. Suddenly, Madellaine began to fade from his view. Darius screamed her name, more desperately now.

It was like watching her leave him and being powerless to stop it from happening a second time all over again.

As she vanished, her image was replaced by his old sword. His father’s. He’d called it the Dawn Splitter. Straight and strong, the sword that he had inherited from his father upon his passing, the only thing left that still connected him to his old life. His Roman steel weapon shone and glistened. His eyes grew wide in awe and wonder as the blade seemed to take on a life of its own. But then in the silence, Madellaine de Barreau disappeared completely from his view, and gentle snow had begun to fall, and she slipped from his fingers.

A sharp stinging pelt caused Darius to blink himself out of his stupor. His lungs, starved for breath, gasped in oxygen, but it burned them with its purity. He raised a shaking hand to his cheek and found himself staring directly into the unsettling eyes of the man who called himself Gold, looking immensely satisfied with the fact that he had more or less just slapped him out of his stupor. Still keeping a hand on his face, he slowly lifted his confused gaze to meet Gold’s, anger darkening in his blue eyes.

 _Did he really just…slap me_? He wondered, never taking his gaze from Gold’s, but shooting him a withering look of daggers.

But before Darius could open his mouth to speak, Gold shot him a wide, Cheshire-Cat-like grin and spoke, almost as if he could read the shock and surprise on Darius’s face. Or maybe the man was some kind of a mind-reader, a wandering gypsy, perhaps.

“I _did_ as it so happened. I enjoyed it oh so _very_ much. If only you knew just how much, you wouldn’t even believe it if I were to tell you the truth. Consider that a little payback from _me_ , since I can’t very well _hit_ your family member that wronged me, now _can_ I, so you’ll do, for the time being, boy,” he chuckled darkly. “You were daydreaming, monsieur. No time to waste. Not when your pretty little belle needs _rescuing_. Not to mention your other friends, soldier.”

He let out a high-pitched girlish sounding giggle and clapped his hands together in excitement. “I must confess, I quite _enjoyed_ that. I’ve waited a _long_ time to be able to do that, Barret. But you’d best head back inside for a moment. That pretty nun of yours, Alice? She said she wanted a _word_ with you before we left. There is…a matter of utmost _importance_ that I wish to discuss with you, perhaps when we get on the road? The sooner the better, monsieur, so finish what you need to do, and let’s _go_. I don’t fancy being in the company of the older Barreau woman any longer than I _have_ to. The sooner this is resolved, the better, Barret. She’s…”

Gold paused, searching for the right words, only to be interrupted by a shrill shriek from Maria as Snowball apparently wasn’t taking kindly to have the wench on his back and was trying to buck her, leaving poor LeFou to try to calm the beast down. “She’s sweet but she’s a _psycho_ ,” Gold grumbled darkly. “We’re going to have to watch this one, boy.”

Darius merely grunted his agreement of the older man’s assessment of Madellaine’s sister wordlessly in response, finally lowering his hand from his cheek, and looking towards the front of the cathedral steps, where he was pleased to see Gold had done as he had asked, and brought him Snowball, saddled and ready, though looking thoroughly displeased at being out in the cold.

Gold had even taken it a step further and unchained LeFou and had used the same manacles Maria had bound the poor man in and had her wrists shackled, the end of the length of chain LeFou was given charge of, ensuring the wench made no attempt to escape, a task that he was only too pleased to be delegated with.

“Well, get going then, if you’re going. The Wolves’ Woods is going to take some time to get through. It’s rumored that the forest is cursed with centuries of dark magic. You don’t get a move on and see what that nun wants, I’ll hit you _again_ , Barret, and next time, I won’t hold back,” Gold spat angrily through his clenched teeth as he watched the admittedly rather hilarious scene of LeFou struggling not to get trampled by Frollo’s black Friesian stallion, while the horse fought to get Maria off its back. He chuckled.

Darius shot the strange group who had agreed to help him one last wary glance before turning on his heels, brushing his hands on the sleeves of his black jerkin. In truth, he was grateful Gold had sent him back inside the cathedral for a moment to speak to Sister Alice.

He was unsure how he would have restrained himself from sending the man who had stopped him from killing Maria de Barreau sprawling onto the ground with just one powerful strike. 

He wondered if Monsieur Gold had sensed his rage and had sent him away to avoid such a scene in front of Holy Ground and in front of LeFou, who was still badly shaken.

Darius felt like his thoughts were spinning out of control. Belle and Quasi kidnapped by their land’s Prince and Madellaine.

The urgent squint of Darius’s stare quickly morphed into a glower as his mind ventured to what had transpired here on the front steps just hours ago, watching Madellaine get kidnapped. Quasi and Belle unconscious, and he, powerless to help.

So deep in thought was Darius that he was at Sister Alice’s door before he realized it. He took a moment to draw in a breath and compose himself before knocking. He knew not what he would say, or what it was that Alice could possibly want of him, but nevertheless, he forced himself to swallow his nerves and his rage.

“Enter,” came her voice from the other side of the door, and that was his cue to swing the heavy paneled door inward, and marched into Alice’s personal quarters, a nervous expression on his face. His sharp blue eyes made a quick scan of the room before settling upon the chair in the corner, where he almost snorted.

Alice was up to her usual antics, one leg folded over the other, having discarded her habit and coif, letting her gray hair fall loose to her shoulders, and he would have laughed at seeing her in Darius’s own brown woolen habits, more comfortable, she claimed.

She quirked a thin greying brow and studied him over the rim of her goblet of wine, already drinking and the sun wasn’t even set beyond the horizon yet, though Darius knew if they didn’t get a move on and fast, they were sure to be caught in the impending blizzard that it looked like the skies were promising.

“My, my, this _is_ a surprise, Barret. I confess myself _impressed_ , son. Look at _you_. You clean up well, much better than those ratty, tattered old habits,” she murmured in admiration, silently appreciating the handsome soldier boy’s new black attire in a simple black linen shirt, a jerkin, black leather breeches, and boots. “Darius,” Alice brightened. “Saying your goodbyes?” she smiled. “You did not truly think I’d let you _leave_ without seeing _me_ first, did you, son?” she chuckled, setting down her cup.

“Well…yes,” Darius stammered. He would have come to see her had Alice not taken the initiative and summoned her first. She was very much like a mother figure in his life when he had none. This was, however, not the reason she had sought him out this day, Darius could see it in Alice’s twinkling bright blue eyes.

“It seems that monsieur Gold has the utmost confidence in your ability to pull this off. He’s a _strange_ fellow, that chap, always looking like he knows more than he lets on, but we’ve seen _worse_ , you and I, boy, haven’t we son?” Alice chortled, almost proudly so, letting out a tired sigh and picking her wine chalice back up, swirling the liquid in her cup for a moment before taking a sip.

“We have.” Darius nodded. “It appears he does,” he answered, suddenly feeling somewhat shy, which felt not like him at all. “I—I don’t want to let Madellaine or Belle down, Alice. I _can’t_ ,” he swore through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as dozens of possible tortuous scenarios flitted through the front of his mind as the woman he loved and the woman whose friendship he cherished and respected suffered at the hands of this prince.

“I’m sure you won’t,” Alice praised. She had seen with her own two eyes the few occasions Darius had gone out of his way to protect the women from harm. 

It was then that she noticed Darius’s piercing glacier gaze had drifted down to the large thin parcel that rested idly in her lap. Why she had called the man here. She had carefully wrapped it in the finest of red silk fabric.

“What is it that you carry?” Darius asked curiously, though there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that felt he already knew the answer. Alice was holding it as one will a gift.

Alice looked timid, all of a sudden. She was unsure where to begin. She held out the package. “I….” she began, her voice cracking. “I wish to return this to your family. It’s rightfully _yours_. I’ve kept it for you all these years, but where you’re going, through the Wolves’ Woods, boy, you’re going to _need_ it for protection.”

Sister Alice held it out for Darius to take from her. “There is no one else worthy of such a weapon. Only you. It _belongs_ to _you_ ,” Alice said with certainty. 

She turned slightly, draping her legs in a casual relaxed manner over the arms of her chair. Her heart broke for the man as she saw the pain brimming in his deep blue eyes.

“Thank you,” he said at last, if not a little bit stiffly, feeling the weight of his sword in his hands before sheathing it around his waist. Alice rose with a reluctant groan from her chair and shuffled to the middle of the room, the two of them standing in an awkward reticence for a few minutes before Sister Alice spoke up.

“God speed on your quest then, Barret,” Alice wished. “I want to _meet_ this Barreau lass that has you so captivated. You _will_ bring Madellaine back to meet Jeanne and me, _won’t_ you, Darius?”

He nodded with a slight incline of his head. “I promise,” he vowed, and as he lifted his chin, he laid his hand formally upon his sword and stared at Alice. “I’ll have to bring her back here if I want to marry her if she’ll have me. I’d like for the Archdeacon to officiate, if…if Madellaine says yes,” he joked, though Alice knew he was serious.

For a moment, Alice could not speak. She was touched by Darius’s devotion to the young woman, willing to go to the depths of the ends of the earth itself for this young blonde mademoiselle.

“You _care_ for her, then. You _love_ her?” Alice questioned, feeling certain she already knew the answer as she cleared her throat and stepped back, standing as unmoved as a statue. 

“Yes, but she…she _left_ me,” he answered hoarsely, as his eyes studied the floor, feeling as though somehow, he should not be revealing what had transpired between the two of them. 

How Madellaine had kissed him and then cruelly left to sacrifice herself over to her sister.

For _him_. But he was _not_ a man who was worth it. Worth her. He didn’t want her life. Take it _back_. 

This Prince could take him instead if it meant that Madellaine could go free if that’s what it took to bargain with this land’s nobleman, who wasn’t so noble.

Alice raised her thin greying eyebrows in alarm at this confession. She’d not known of this part. 

“Oh?” she asked in a casual manner, though in secret, she was just dying to know more.

“I…she—we kissed,” he said quietly, finally piercing the silence, and he didn’t even have to look to see the shimmering intrigue in the aging but still quite pretty nun’s face. “I—I don’t think we meant to, but it just… _happened_ , Alice. It happened.”

“Did Madellaine like it?” came Alice’s surprisingly sly and soft voice, warmer than it had been before, with no hard edges.

“I—I don’t know, b-but if she did, Alice, then why did she leave me? Did I _say_ something, have I _done_ something that would make that woman despise me?” Darius stammered, though he immediately felt the sudden heat and stinging rise around his neck and felt the constraints of his black jerkin and collared shirt as he thought of Madellaine’s pressed against his, her fingers practically clawing at his habit as they pressed into his chest, reaching out for something indescribable, something passionate.

Alice paused, considering her choice of words. “No, I don’t think she did, love. I can tell by the look on your face that the girl probably enjoyed it if what you’re telling me is true, how she left, not wanting to. It seems she thought there to be no other choice but to use herself.”

Darius blinked, staring at the aging nun in incredulity and disbelief. He did not understand, and it showed on his face. 

“But if she liked it then why did she _leave_ me?” he cried.

Alice answered with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “To _protect_ you, Darius. She _did_ like it, then, so you’ve nothing to worry about. She gave up herself so that you would be safe. I think that more than qualifies as love, wouldn’t you say? Or at least a strong trust,” Alice grinned, seeing something soften in Darius’s blue eyes as they took on a milky, almost cloudy hue. “But I don’t understand.” She jerked her thumb towards the doorway, motioning to the outside. “If you love Madellaine so much, then why didn’t you kill the sister? What Jeanne and I could see, that one outside almost _killed_ the woman you care for, and Belle and our bell ringer too. She’s nuts! She’s short of _several_ marbles, boy, you ask me, I think the sister would do well to be carted off to D'Arque's insane asylum. But you don’t need _me_ to tell you that. Why _didn’t_ you?” she inquired, her voice soft.

Darius paused, before evidently finding his words and speaking slowly, trying to recall every lurid detail of how the strange bloke outside, Gold, had stopped him from killing Maria.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “When I saw her, she—she looks like just Madellaine, and she looked so desperate and terrified that I couldn’t just plunge her own dagger into her heart. I don’t know why I couldn’t. I wanted to. God, I _do_ , Alice. If he wouldn’t have stopped me, Gold, then I would have ripped her heart out. But…all I could think, all I could see was Madellaine.”

“Perhaps this young woman who has you so ensnared around her little pinky without her even realizing it, her softening influence upon you, was why you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.” Alice nodded to herself as she took a sip of red wine, studying the man in his new attire as he lingered in the doorway.

Darius smiled a sad, wistful smile to himself, thinking how Barreau’s presence in his life had affected him in such a short time span and was bringing out old emotions that he’d long forgotten what they felt like.

Hope. Happiness. Affection. Desire. _Love_. The last emotion caused his skin to crawl, though not necessarily in an unpleasant way as he shuddered. 

“Perhaps,” he agreed,” though he closed his eyes in agony at the thought of Madellaine suffering under the Prince, and of Belle and Quasi.

“You would sacrifice that of your own life to save this girl, _wouldn’t_ you?” Alice murmured, her breaths catching in her throat. “Something tells me by the look in your eyes, Barret, that you would do it…for _her_ ,” Sister Alice exclaimed, her voice quiet.

Darius nodded, not responding, not sure what else to say. Alice let out a sigh, waving her arm towards Darius, motioning the man to follow her out as she escorted him out of her personal quarters in one of the spare cloister cells and towards the doors.

Somehow, Alice felt it would be easier to say goodbye as they were moving. Once underway, strolling the corridors at a leisurely pace, and slower than Darius would have liked, but they had no choice thanks to Alice’s arthritis and lumbago as the nun aged, she continued.

“You’re a soldier boy of remarkable skill, Darius,” she praised. “Remember that. You’ve impressive natural instincts. Trust yourself. The Wolves’ Woods is rumored to be cursed with dark magic. It is _not_ to be taken lightly.” Alice felt as though there were a million and one things she needed to say to Darius, and so little time, although the nun for the life of her, did not know why.

“Thank you. I will,” Darius quietly acknowledged, studying the ground almost too intently. “It’s…it’s been a great honor, having you in my life, Alice. You’ve been like a mother to me when I’ve had no one else, Al, as ornery as you are, I’ll miss your wit,” he chuckled wistfully, forcing down the lump in his throat, blinking back the shimmering moisture in his pale blue irises. “I owe you the greatest debt. I will never forget all you’ve done for me since I came to this place,” he said, looking around the nave once more.

Alice smiled, a bit confused. “Oh, hush with that kind of talk, Barret,” she joked, playfully swatting the tall man on the arm. “You act as if you’ll never see me again. You _promised_ me, didn’t you? You would bring this girl of yours that you’re so desperately infatuated with back to meet Jeanne and me, you _swore_ it, and our cathedral needs its bell ringer back alive and unharmed. His wife’s baby is to be born in the tower. Belle came to me and said that was what she wanted. Asked the Archdeacon if whenever her time was upon her if the church could be closed. He’s already agreed.”

If Darius was surprised by the nature of Quasi’s wife’s request, he hid it well, though a flicker of intrigue darted through his eyes, Alice saw, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

The look on Darius’s face told Sister Alice that he feared just that. “There’s no telling what I might come up against in those damned accursed woods,” Darius growled, his gaze briefly flitting towards the group as he wrenched open the heavy oak doors of the cathedral and stepped out onto the front steps of the church.

“Well, you’ve got your sword back. And the others are going with you, so it’s not like you’re taking this on alone. I think you’ll be just fine Darius. You doubt yourself too much. You’re a soldier boy, you’ve always been one. You’ll be fine, kid,” she added, chuckling as it looked like the short, stout one called LeFou and the older Barreau woman short of several marbles was now arguing, with LeFou beet red in the face, while the strange, cloaked figure, Monsieur Gold, looked like he quite wanted to strangle the pair of them though he sat on the bottommost steps and refused to put an end to LeFou and Maria’s loud bickering.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” he groaned jokingly the moment LeFou’s loud voice carried, saying words to the blonde harlot that he’d not have dared repeat inside the cathedral walls. He turned towards Alice and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I _promise_ to come back. I think you’ll like Madellaine. Belle already does,” he added, somewhat wistfully, his eyes softening before he realized what he was doing to himself and managed to snap himself out of it, giving his head a curt shake to clear it. “I’m _not_ going to let the Wolves’ Woods get the better of us,” Darius promised, though Alice’s sharp eyes like that of a hawk noticed how his grip tightened over the hilt of his sword.

Alice nodded. “See to it you _don’t_. Otherwise, if you let that place get the better of you, it will send your minds _insane_. That forest has been known to get people lost, Barret. _Permanently_.”

“I promise.” There was a beat. A pause, until another yelp from Maria at something LeFou called her startled the dark-haired former priest out of his musings. He let out a sigh, turning towards them before looking back to Alice. “Will you do something for me?” he asked, rummaging inside a satchel slung over his hip. Alice mutely nodded, surprised when the man dug out one of his habits, neatly wrapped and folded, pristine, clean.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, holding out her hands to take the garment from Darius, looking at it.

He jutted his chin out slightly defiantly and a tiny smirk tugged the edges of his lips upward until he could no longer tamper down his smile. “ _Burn_ it, Alice. When I come back to Notre Dame, it’s not going to be as a clergyman, Sister. I’m done.”

Alice smiled in return.

“You mean to go through with it, then? Your plan?” she questioned, already knowing the answer, but regardless, she wanted to hear Barret say it for himself. She thought of the young man like her own son, as she did Quasi, and to see both of her boys live fulfilling lives in the arms of the women they loved, overjoyed her more than she cared to admit.

When he nodded, not saying a word, that was the only encouragement Alice needed to rummage in the pockets of the habit of Darius’s that she had swiped and was now wearing, cursing under her breath much to Darius’s amusement, seeming to not care that was still on Holy Ground out here on the steps, and she only quieted when she pulled her clenched fist out of one of the pockets.

“I was _hoping_ you would say that. Well. If that’s the case, then before you go, I’ve one more item to give you. Something that belongs to you. Hold out your hand, Barret, I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to give you. I know that you’ve been itching to remove that woman’s head from her body,” she said gruffly, jerking her thumb towards Maria. “But I _do_ hope that if you were thinking of doing it, then you reconsider, at least for right now, until she does something that gives you a reason to take her life. I think that Madellaine’s sister is a _bitch_ , pardon the language, but _evil_ people like her, mean people, always get what’s coming to them, one way or another. But that does not mean that temporarily being forced to work with her is going to be _easy_. But I’ve got something I think might make it worth this. Hold out your hand, Barret, be _quick_ about it. You’ve not got all night, now.”

Confused, he did so, wondering where she was going with this. Alice placed her hand over the top of his outstretched palm and uncurled her fist. Darius didn’t even have to look to feel the weight of what felt like two gold rings being placed into his hand.

Alice Beaumont took a faltering step back, though not before curling Darius’s hand protectively closed over the pair of simple yellow gold bands.

“Perhaps this would make a more appropriate offering when you ask. I found them one day when I was washing your habits for you, Barret,” she explained, seeing the man’s eyes grow wide for a moment before quickly enclosing his fist over the rings and pocketing them in a little pocket on his jerkin, close to his heart, she noticed fondly. “They were your parents. I—I figured…if the day came where you ever did meet someone, and you wanted to put this life behind you, you wouldn’t have wanted to use your rings from your and Hanna’s marriage. Too many bad memories,” she whispered, her voice suddenly sounding faint. “ _Take_ them, boy, if you’re serious about wanting to court the girl.”

Darius took them, blinking rapidly in the hopes of quelling the tears that threatened to spill over if he couldn’t control himself. “I…thank you. _Mother_ ,” he added, and before Alice could react, his arm shot out and caught Alice’s forearm, eliciting a startled squeak of surprise as she found herself enveloped in his arms, awkwardly patting the man’s shoulder, not sure what to do.

Darius surprisingly found himself snuggling in, feeling the older woman’s warmth. “Al, you’re the only person I know that gives indefinite hugs. I’ll expect a good one when we get back.”

He felt Alice laugh as her head resting against his chest. “Well, love, where else would I rather be?”

At that moment, her arms squeezed a fraction of a second tighter and Darius breathed more slowly, his body melting into the older woman’s, she who was as good as his own mother at this point in his life, as every muscle in his body lost its tension to the chilled winter air around.

This was _life_. Real-life, and he wouldn’t trade it for a thing.

Reluctantly, the pair of them pulled apart upon hearing another shout from Maria, and something from Gold about wanting to get into the heart of the Wolves’ Woods for shelter from the bitter winter storm that was about to set its wrath on the entire city of Paris and would do the same to them too if they didn’t get a move on.

“This _isn’t_ goodbye,” Darius swore, holding Alice at arm’s length as she sniffed, blinking back tears of her own. “I’ll see you again, Al. Hopefully in a few days. Maybe weeks if we get delayed in the Woods, but I promise to come back, Al.”

“Until then,” Alice agreed, smiling as she flicked away the last of her tears with a well-practiced flick of her index finger. She walked down the steps with Darius and held Darius’s house steady by the bit while he climbed astride, and then stepped back.

Darius moved away, smiling at Alice, waiting for Gold and LeFou to get on their horses that Darius had managed to entice Captain Phoebus to loan him the use of a few of his soldiers’ steeds with the promise of a few gold and silver shillings and farthings. It had worked, and he’d given them two of his horses.

Alice watched as the group walked their horses slowly along the cobblestoned streets away from the front steps of the church.

She would watch the man she considered like a son to her depart until she could no longer see Darius. Just before the group rounded the corner of the streets of the Parisian marketplace that would take them towards the old meadow that lined the edge of the Wolves’ Woods, that damned cursed place full of black magic, Darius turned and gave Sister Alice a hopeful wave and a smile.

Alice returned Barret’s enthusiasm with a nod and a wave of her own, though a cold shudder wafted its way violently down her spine that sent a chill of dread through her entire body, causing her to feel as though someone had doused her in ice-cold water. She could not quite shake the feeling as she went inside, not wanting to linger in the cold, that the group was going to have their work cut out for them in the Wolves Woods, that dark place.

While Darius, meanwhile, as the group continued along the path, caught his last glance of the illustrious, towering structure of Notre Dame de Paris that had been his home for the last several years of his life out of the corner of his eye as he turned his horse. He tried not to give too much heed to the notion that ran through his mind as his eyes returned to the path ahead of them.

For some horrible reason, Darius felt that he would never see Notre Dame, or Alice again.

He tried to ignore it, though the feeling stayed with him throughout the trek, until he reached the Wolves’ Woods, where the group was forced to part with their horses once the animals got spooked, not wanting to set one hoof into the dark forest that separated them from the prince’s estate.

It was a thought that plagued his mind as Darius and Gold sent the horses on their way, much to LeFou and Maria’s chagrin.

Though as he entered the Wolves Woods, determination and resolve set upon his features, the man was smart not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I look at my outline, I think...this might be the longest fic I've ever written at around 100 chapters! Yikes! 
> 
> O.O Oy. I'm still trying to work on condensing some of the chapters to make it not quite so long, but it's a process!
> 
> I hope the Woods doesn’t come close to breaking the group! I do have quite a little fun adventure in the Wolves’ Woods upcoming in between Belle/Quasi/Madellaine’s time at the Beast-Prince’s castle since I didn't want to rush Belle's time at the castle, a nice little side-adventure in the enchanted dark woods that involves LeFou coming into himself and finding his inner bravery whilst trying to stay out and trouble and help the group reach the Beast Prince's castle to save their friends, and Maria may or may not find a redeeming arc just yet. Timeline wise, it's originally supposed to take Darius and Rumple and co. about 5 days to reach the castle, but with this new plan of mine, it's going to take them a little bit longer to get to Quasibelle and Madellaine, which gives Belle more time with her husband and the Beast-Prince.
> 
> Random side note: not sure why the mental image of Rumple slapping Killian's ancestor made me giggle so hard, but I thought it was a nice little light-hearted moment.


	62. Her New Position

**CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE**

Madellaine wasn’t sure which was worse. The fact that she was back in the Prince’s castle, the _last_ place she wanted to be right now, _or_ the fact that a brand- _new_ problem was staring her in the face, and that problem was Brutus, one of the head guards that had taken quite a liking to Maria, only it would seem that within the last couple of weeks, Maria had royally upset him.

The guard responsible for dealing with prisoners was looking in a less-than-good mood to see Madellaine still alive.

Madellaine had only met Brutus once a couple of times and didn’t like the way the sallow-faced, dark-haired soldier was looking at her, with a look of disgust, hatred, and a frustrated desire. She swallowed down hard. He was good-looking enough, long dark hair, though his skin was somewhat sallow looking, she guessed, and had the build of a man who she’d once imagined to embracing, at least until she’d laid eyes on Darius and then he—

 _NO_! She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She could not— _would_ not think of Darius. _Better that Barret stays away from me._

And this thought, though it hurt her to think it, was truer still. She felt as though she would only bring the poor man pain.

Madellaine had a horrible feeling that if he were to see her like this, he’d not like it one bit. She’d woken up in a prison cell, feeling empty and desolate. There were only demons around her, and she was sure she was knee-deep in the seven hells, though she’d caught snippets of conversation here and there that suggested Belle and Quasi were safe. _For now_ , Madellaine thought wildly, biting on her lip.

Though she had been knocked unconscious by one of the guards, probably Brutus, judging by the way he was sneering at her as he towered over her as she huddled in the corner of her cell, shivering, and waiting with gritted teeth while she hoped that whatever Brutus wanted of her, the man would get it over with, she’d not slept well, with rest seeming to be an elusive concept. Her head felt heavy, her legs didn’t want to move at all, her hands trembled.

Most of all, she felt _stupid_. Utterly humiliated. How could she have thought she would have been able to talk sense into Maria?

That she would have been able to tame the monster her sister had turned into if she’d only gone with her?

She stiffened as she caught sight of her reflection in a puddle of water gathered by the edge of her boots. There was a ghost staring back at her. Short blonde hair hung lank and limp and lifeless, falling like a curtain in front of her too-thin face, deep purple circles underneath darkened, saddened pale blue irises.

She was naught but a shadow. Angrily, Madellaine kicked out at the water with the edge of her foot, interfering with her distorted reflection, and her reflection changed, transforming into her own monster. Was _this_ what she had to become in order to ensure her friends were kept safe? Irritated, she felt her head whiplash sharply upwards as she heard the guard, Brutus, speak.

“I’m glad you’re _back_ , little dove. Maria killed two of my best hounds when they nipped at her last week, sweetheart,” he growled as he stalked his way towards the corner of the cell that she was huddled in, her knees brought up close to hug her chest.

“That doesn’t have anything to _do_ with me!” Madellaine hissed through gritted teeth, though a warning bell chimed in her mind, screaming at her to try to get away, though she had nowhere to go. “I—I don’t know what you _want_ of me, monsieur, but I don’t have _anything_ to do with what my sister does. _Please_.”

She stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down on it, blinking back tears and swallowing a lump in her throat.

Brutus merely snorted by way of response, kneeling down more to be at eye-level with the captivating younger sister of Maria de Barreau. “Maybe not, but I can’t very well _hit_ your sister, can I?” he barked, looking to the left and right as though expecting to see Maria appear out of thin air. “No,” he growled.

He reached out a rough, calloused hand and tucked a stray wisp of her blonde hair behind her right ear. His stubby fingers lingered in the golden blonde main before he trailed them down along the curve of her ear, along her soft jawline and neck.

It was either the coldness or disgust, Madellaine wasn’t sure which was which, but she could feel herself start to shudder.

“Don’t _touch_ me!” she growled, hardly recognizing her tone of voice. For a moment, Madellaine thought Maria was speaking.

“Barreau, you’re _mistaken_ if you think you’re in a place to tell _me_ what to do, little dove,” Brutus grinned as he wound his thin fingers around her throat, groping at the warm column of her throat. Madellaine shuddered out of disgust for the vile guard and had to do everything she could not to resist throwing up on him.

She coughed instead, wrenching her head away and turning it sharply to the left, and ripping herself out of his grip to which he slapped Madellaine across the face harshly with the back of his hand, his emerald rings leaving two welts across her cheek.

Brutus looked down at Madellaine with a sickening, cruel grin that made her wish the ground beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole and magic her away somewhere else.

She tried to shrink down from the large man, but the guard’s grip was ironclad and firm. Madellaine was trapped.

“You’re certainly the _cutest_ little captive the Prince has ever kept prisoner. Even cuter than your older sister, Barreau,” Brutus remarked casually with a disgusting grin and a suggestive wink as he brought one of his hands and firmly cupped at her left cheek.

Madellaine let out a groan of disgust and fear, leaning away from the Prince’s guard and Maria’s acquaintance as best as she could, but Brutus only gripped onto her arm even tighter, dragging her back against the wall, forcing her to stand upright and nearly knocking the breath out of the winded blonde’s lungs.

 _“Let go of me! Get off_!” Madellaine finally screamed as Brutus held her firmly against the wall, though she felt her skin crawl as the guard put one of his hands firmly around her neck.

Not necessarily outright threateningly, but it certainly scared the girl, nonetheless. She wished she were braver, like Maria, that she could summon the courage to spit in his eyes or try to bite off a finger or one of his ears. Anything she could to survive this. The blonde brought her own hand up to Brutus’s, trying to pry it off her throat and using her other hand to shove uselessly at the large guard’s chest, though it did her no good.

His hand around Madellaine’s neck tightened to keep her in place, and maybe even to keep her crying out again, as Brutus’s other hand ran down along her left side and towards her thighs.

“If you hold _still_ , sweetheart, it won’t hurt you as much,” Brutus laughed cruelly as he grabbed at one of Madellaine’s wrists, pinning it harshly against the wall as he used his other hand to try to wander beneath the skirts of her dark green dress.

Madellaine struggled to fight the man off, but it was no use, so she settled on screaming, begging for help from anyone in this bastard’s castle who might hear her cries, maybe another guard would take pity on her, or a servant who happened to pass by.

“ _Help me! Help_!” she screamed so loud her throat hurt but didn’t stop screaming until the Prince’s guard took a half step back, just enough to give Madellaine a little bit of space, and then punched the poor girl extremely hard in the stomach. Brutus immediately closed in on the young blonde like a hungry vulture homing in on its prey, trapping her against the wall just as quickly as he had stepped back a moment ago, giving her no time to react.

If she could have moved, Madellaine would have undoubtedly doubled over in pain. She might have fallen to the cell’s floor, but the guard’s body and his hands kept her pressed up firmly against the wall and held upright as she gasped for air and blinked through salty, briny, pained tears as she begged him.

“Please…stop…” she whimpered, unable to escape the shaking, pained sob that escaped her hoarse and sore throat immediately after her frantic plains. The guard tugged at the skirts of her dress, trying to hike them up, though she was admittedly making it difficult for him to do so as she fought him.

She could not let this _creep_ take away the _one_ thing she had hoped to offer a man she loved one day. _Like Darius_? A horrible nagging, cold voice at the back of her mind chimed unhelpfully.

“I need you to hold _still_ , darling,” the guard smirked and grunted as he brought his hand up to caress Madellaine’s cheek in a gesture of mock compassion. “And you need to learn to shut the hell up, wench. Hold _still_ , be _quiet_ , and I _promise_ , you will _enjoy_.”

“ **NO**!” Madellaine screamed, thrashing her body as best as she could as she fought valiantly in the effort to free herself of his grip. “ _Stop_! _Please_! You—you _don’t_ want to do this, Brutus!” she shouted as she felt the Prince’s guard slap her hard across the face. Again, she’d have fallen if he had not been holding her.

“I thought I told you to shut up, _bitch_ ,” Brutus growled, clearly growing frustrated with Madellaine’s desperate screams.

Breathing terrified and frantic breaths, Madellaine reached up to her hands quickly towards the towering guard’s face, clawing at the man’s eyes in a desperate attempt to gouge his eyes out, any little way that she could try to hurt him to get away, she would.

“You _bitch_!” the guard bellowed. Madellaine might have succeeded in her attempts to incapacitate him, at least temporarily long enough to get away, and probably had, judging by Brutus’s shocked, pale face, but had no time to see what level of damage she had inflicted before the man struck her cheek again.

For a moment, the young blonde was silenced as she blinked back a fresh onset of tears and tried to keep herself focused on the precariousness of her current situation, even as tears clouded her vision. She knew for a fact, having seen Brutus in action once or twice alongside her sister, the man standing in front of her was capable of hitting someone hard enough to kill them with just a single blow, the sheer force to break a neck.

“Let me _go_. _Please_ ,” Madellaine sobbed, tears streaming down her face just as she heard the unmistakable sound of the creaking of the iron-wrought prison cell opening across the room.

As much as she wanted to believe someone was here to save her from this, she wasn’t going to count on that happening. “ _Stop_ …” Madellaine begged through her tears. Her entire body was wracked with pain and hard sobs. All she could do at this point was grovel and beg that this abuse would go no further.

As she pushed her trembling hands against the man’s chest, she felt as though she were mere seconds away from passing out completely. She was so frightened, so scared, so alone.

“What is the _meaning_ of this, Brutus?!?” It was Monsieur Cogsworth’s unmistakable, baritone voice, though right now, the elderly gentleman’s voice was spluttering out his indignation.

Madellaine opened her eyes and looked towards the door just in time to see one of the Prince’s Heads of House, one of his more trusted advisors, making his way quickly across the room.

“Monsieur Cogsworth,” she heard the man start to say, and almost immediately, Madellaine felt the pressure of his rough, calloused hands leave her shoulder and his body parted from hers.

“Do not _speak_ to me, young master Brutus. _Leave_ this room at once. Mark my words, the captain shall hear of this insolence. You will _quit_ this place by morning, do you _hear_ me?”

Though Monsieur Cogsworth’s voice was just as calm as Madellaine had remembered, the few times of meeting the man, somehow, at the moment, the gentleman seemed more menacing.

Watching the guard’s face twist in dread brought Madellaine a sick sense of inner delight as Cogsworth spoke again.

“I will deal with you _later_. Now _leave_. _Go_ ,” he barked gruffly. Brutus did not need to be told twice as he pushed towards the door, quickly leaving the prison cell. Madellaine looked away in anger and disgust, swallowing past the bile rising in her throat.

Madellaine suddenly felt frigid and numb to the core as she wrapped her arms around herself and stared towards the cobblestone floor. She immediately moved one hand back to the wall, in order to keep herself steady. She was starting to feel sick.

Her chest felt tight, and she had no idea what to do next. All she thought was that she felt she might pass out at any minute.

“I’m _terribly_ _sorry_ about that, young mademoiselle. I was on my way to check on you to escort you to your new quarters, as you have been assigned as the lady Belle’s personal hearth keep during your…your stay here with us, but I’d _never_ would have thought…the _nerve_!” Cogsworth managed to gasp out in a squeak.

He did, at the very least, sound genuinely remorseful and disgusted at the Prince’s guard's actions. “Rest assured, mademoiselle, he will face judgment for what he has done.”

Cogsworth straightened his wig and was look pink in the face and quite flustered, a prominent vein protruding in his neck, and he was clutching at his heart and looking down at her, hot shame and guilt marring his facial features as though he could not quite believe with his own two eyes what he’d almost witnessed.

Well. That made _two_ of them tonight then, _didn’t_ it?!? Madellaine looked up towards the Head of House but had no idea what to say to the gentleman, who held a hand outstretched and had bent slightly into a crouch to help her up.

She could feel her body shaking and she wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Maria’s younger sister could only stare at Monsieur Cogsworth, wondering just how many people in this castle would hate her for the striking resemblance she bore to Maria who had many enemies. Madellaine was quickly learning it firsthand for herself.

Madellaine shuddered the moment the older gentleman’s fingers wound around her forearm and, with more strength than she thought possible of the man, considering his elderly age, he wrenched her to her feet, immediately throwing an arm over her shoulder as she staggered to regain control of her equilibrium.

“You are _safe_ now, mademoiselle, I can assure you,” Cogsworth stated stiffly, if not perhaps a little too formally as he quickly ushered her out of the castle’s dungeons and towards a side staircase that looked to lead to where the servants’ quarters were located. “You will have your _own_ room of course, and if it will reassure you of your safety, I can have a guard—a _trusted_ guard—stand guard outside your room. No one will touch you again,” he quickly elaborated, noticing the blonde shoot him a withering look out of the corner of her gaze as he guided her to a nearby chair that looked to be stationed just outside the kitchen.

“I…I’ll give it a thought, monsieur, thank you.” Madellaine somehow managed to conjure a small smile, though smiling was honestly the last thing she felt like doing. She wished Darius were here. He would know what to say, what to do, to make it better.

“Please do.” Cogsworth stared at Madellaine for a moment in silence and Madellaine withstood the Head of House’s gaze, trying her absolute hardest to keep her feelings bottled within and not let them reach her normally expressive pale blue eyes. “I would suggest then you take a half-hour to compose yourself in your new quarters before seeing to the lady Belle’s needs during dinner. You must be exhausted.”

 _Exhausted_. Madellaine seethed. Such a suitable word to describe a horrific situation where she had been nearly assaulted and violated in a way that made the young woman shudder in revulsion at just the sheer thought of it.

“I will see you to your chamber. Please follow me, milady.”

 _Personally_? That surprised Madellaine slightly. She hoped that the Head of House meant only to accompany her there because she did not think her body could take any more surprises. She nodded her head slowly, agreeing to Cogsworth’s proposition. Cogsworth offered her his arm courteously and Madellaine reluctantly accepted it, biting down on her bottom lip.

Madellaine cringed as her body involuntarily clung to Monsieur Cogsworth’s, too traumatized and shaken to manage on its own.

They walked to her new quarters in silence. At the door, he bid her farewell with instructions to report to the dining hall in half an hour’s time and to wear something suitable for her station. Cogsworth left Madellaine alone, much to her utter relief.

Once she had closed the door behind her and was safely inside her new room, Madellaine shakily slid to the floor and put her knees to her chest, hiding her head between her legs, her entire body wracked with shuddering sobs and violent trembling.

Slowly but surely, she felt the agitation and fear escaping her body at what she had very narrowly avoided, thanks to old Cogsworth.

Though it left her with a sense of sheer dread. She quivered for it in a little while, until anger and hatred seeped into her veins and bloodstream, combined with an intense wish to watch as Brutus took his last dying breath, maybe at Darius’s hand. That man, that guard, would get his due, she promised him.

Once her mind regained its ability to focus and form a coherent thought, she was able to reach a few important conclusions. There were people within these castle walls that hated her, for her resemblance to her vicious sister, Maria.

But _Belle_ was here, and perhaps being her new hearth keep, as Cogsworth had stated she had been assigned the role, perhaps it meant that she would get better protection, as the old Head of House had promised her, and maybe she would be safe.

Madellaine sniffed and wiped at the edge of her nose with the sleeve of her dress. There were no tears left in her to shed, thank God. Unable to calm her nerves in any other way, she rested her head against the door and closed her eyes, thinking of _him_.

She could still feel Darius. Her fingers slowly ran through her hair and traced her neck. Madellaine closed her eyes, wishfully imagining the way his lips had pressed against hers. Flashes of shame blotched at her cheeks at the memory.

Yet if it meant finally living the rest of her life in this eerie ascent of euphoria and bliss at the memory of Darius's lips against hers, then she would be willing to do whatever he asked if he came for her. For _all_ of them. Just the thought caused tears to pour from her lids and she gave herself over to her quiet sobs.

How could she be so damned bloody stupid? Of course, Darius couldn’t have _feelings_ for her! Why _would_ he? He still loved his wife, Hanna.

 _Hanna_. When he’d uttered her name with such a heartbreaking tenderness and such reverence, such adoration that was undisguised, Madellaine felt a scorching heat of envy creep to her cheeks that she was immediately ashamed of.

For how could she, a lowborn common thief, albeit a reluctant one, ever compare to the likes of his first wife, Hanna?

And Darius Barret did not seem the type of man to just get over a woman. Madellaine had seen it in his eyes when they spoke. His unshakable, fierce loyalty would not allow him to let her go. No. Once a man like Darius gave away his heart, it was forever. And he had already given it to a _ghost_. Hanna was dead.

He could never love me, Madellaine realized with a stifled, half-choked sob. Angrily, she brushed away her tears with a flick of her finger and sniffed once or twice until she could feel her heartbeats start to slow and resemble a normal rhythm again.

It was her own fault. She was all too painfully aware of that. But how could she have known? She’d never fallen in love before. If she’d not been so blind and stupid and hopeful, she surely would have seen that Darius could not possibly care for her. _Yes_ , he was kind to her. But he seemed a man who was kind to everyone.

Look at how he treated the bell ringer and Belle! Why then on God’s green earth should that make her different? She wasn’t special to anyone, not even to her sister. And it had also been true that Darius had been kind and gentle as he’d held her, and…when they had kissed, she’d felt it.

Some unseen, invisible force, connecting the two of them, but surely, it had only been Madellaine’s overactive imagination. Her tongue still tasted the sweetness of the man’s kiss, and her skin flushed hot and stung, burning, with the memory of his touch, feeling his fingers sifting their way through her hair then.

She was such a bloody _idiot_. Why did she have to go and develop an infatuation with him anyway?

Madellaine had never been able to bring herself to give a care about the other young Parisian men close to her age that lived in the village, or the few that gaped at her backside in Clopin’s Court of Miracles when they thought she wasn’t looking, but she was. This one lonely priest with a tragic past, interacting with him on a few separate occasions had caused her to completely change her mind than about the notion of love?

But, as her eyes widened as the realization dawned on her, Madellaine already knew the answer to that. Everything changed.

The man’s soft, shy white smile. His quiet voice. His beautiful blue eyes seemed to sparkle like the purest sapphires, like the sea after a storm, whenever he was thinking. And his even more tragically beautiful soul.

Oh, _God_. Slowly, Madellaine collapsed to the floor, not bothering to crawl her way towards the meager, pitiful-looking cot shoved up against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, her vision blurring once more as fresh tears sprang to her eyes that she didn’t fight.

If Darius were to come for her, what would she _say_ to him after she had kissed him and then abandoned him? How could she ever possibly face him again?

Even just _thinking_ about this was making the poor girl feel rather nauseous and quite light-headed. Her heartbeat stronger in her throat. But despite the trepidations, she had loved the kiss. Loved _him_.

 _Wait. Oh, god_. Loved _him_. She was in love with Darius Barret. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her mind wandering into visions of her nightmares while awake. Nightmares filled with blood, murders, deaths. Darius’s pale blue eyes. Her gown stained red at the side. And a baby, a beautiful baby boy that looked as though it were made from gold, but shattered at the slightest touch, breaking.

Her eyes flung wide open, her brow covered in a cold sweat, the cold stone barren walls of her simple little room seemed to be closing in around her, suffocating her; some indescribable evil slinking its way towards her from the shadows in the corner of her little chambers.

It growled at her, baring its teeth, its eyes shining in the dark. One of Maria’s hounds.

Madellaine let herself wake up for real this time, not having realized she’d fallen into a restless sleep, as before she knew it, thirty minutes had come and gone. There was a knock on her door, and before Madellaine could even respond, the door opened, revealing another guard, a young man whose name she did not know.

“It’s time, milady. Master Cogsworth sent me to come and fetch you, mademoiselle. I am to escort you personally to the kitchens to await further instructions from the master of the house.” He offered his arm to her and waited with a faux, artificial grin plastered on his face. Madellaine scoffed at him as she sat up.

“I will need to get dressed properly first, _monsieur_.” There was a horrible mockery laced throughout her voice as she addressed the guard. After what she’d narrowly escaped tonight, Madellaine knew she’d be more than content not to lay eyes on another guard for the rest of her stay here at the Prince’s castle.

From the glint that appeared in the guard’s brown eyes, she knew he had heard it. He quickly composed himself, however. “Of course. _Do_ forgive me, milady, I will wait outside.” And with that, he returned to the corridor, leaving the door wide open.

Madellaine huffed in irritation and agitation, standing up, and marching over to the door, closing it with a rather loud bang. The guard was either that dumb, or it was an act to spite her. Trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart, she quickly changed into a long-sleeved purple silk gown and matching corset.

She raked her fingers through her chin-length, choppy layered short blonde hair.

 _B_ _reathe_ , she thought, casting one last long look at the mirror. A beautiful young blonde, frightened to the bone, her complexion had gone almost bone-white in rage. The Prince, and perhaps even Belle as she dined with the master of the castle, would see her fear during the course of the scheduled dinner, and she could not change it. _Just breathe…_

Madellaine stared at her reflection until there was nothing left in her eyes. Until the girl could stand with her head held high, chin jutted out defiantly, and her hands had ceased their shaking.

Until she was ready from within to report to her new station, however long this arrangement would be while she was here.

The moment she stepped out into the corridor, the new guard’s extended arm greeted her, hiding her distaste towards the chap, though she forced herself to swallow her anger and fear, accepting the man’s arm and together, hand in hand, they walked down the corridor that was composed of the servants’ quarters and towards the lavish dining hall, having to go up the grand staircase in order to get to it.

Madellaine did not let go of the guard’s arm when they reached the dining room. She looked up and out into the massive room, her eyes following the path at her feet until they settled upon the table, the rush of blood in her ears too loud to hear anything else.

The master of the castle was pacing a restless line back and forth, back, and forth, by the windowsill. The master of this castle. The _Prince_. Except…except he wasn’t a Prince anymore. _No_. Her eyes went wide with horror and when she opened her mouth to attempt to speak, all that came out was a terrified little squeak.

In his place, was a _Beast_.

"Wha...that's not possible!" she squeaked. Madellaine swallowed down hard as the Beast-Prince's unmistakable baritone cut through the tension in the air like a butter knife as he spoke. At first, Madellaine thought this monster was addressing her, and she felt quite certain she was about to faint as the guard escorted her into the dining room, where her hand shot out to grip the edge of the table for support, though she quickly realized the Beast-Prince was speaking to none other than Monsieurs Lumiere and Cogsworth.

"Where is the lady Belle, Monsieur Cogsworth?" the Beast growled, his voice dangerously soft and quiet as he turned to look at his footman, his mouth slightly agape, and Madellaine felt her face turn an interesting shade of green upon seeing his sharp, pointed canines bared in her general direction as he spoke up.

Cogsworth cast an apprehensive and skittish glance towards Madellaine, who seemed just as nervous and uneasy as she did. She swallowed. Oh, this was _not_ good.

"She said, um, well, ah, sir, she...the lady Belle was very polite and she even said that..." he stammered, though the Beast Prince's growl cut him off mid-flow.

"Get to the point, Cogsworth," the Beast snarled through gritted teeth as his tail flicked back and forth dangerously like that of a whip as the creature paced.

"Um, the reason why the mademoiselle Belle is not here, the reason why she may not be joining you, young master, for dinner this evening, is because she, ah, didn't expressly say that she would come, that she was still tending to her husband's physical ailments. In fact, the girl prattled on something ridiculous about manners, and she, the lady Belle said she would more or less...think about it, and that she would come if you were ah....well... _polite_?" he squeaked, terrified.

Madellaine squeezed her eyes shut, knowing old Monsieur Cogsworth, God bless his soul, had made an egregious mistake the moment the words tumbled unchecked of their own volition out of his mouth without his brain realizing what he'd just said until a fraction of a second too late as his eyes widened in shock.

But there was not much else he could have said at this point. Cogsworth, Lumiere, and Madellaine all stood cowering in the doorway and the three servants could have sworn they all felt a pin drop before the inevitable explosion of the Beast-Prince's temper erupted forth and utterly destroyed the thick, unbearable silence.

" **WHAT**?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Something tells me Belle is going to regret saying no to the Beast's invitation.


	63. Distracted

**CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO**

The problem for Belle had begun just as she had been about ready to leave. When Monsieur Lumiere had come to check on them, she had given a rather vague answer to the footman, in part because she was still shocked and too flabbergasted at the turn of events to form a cohesive response, and also troubled.

All throughout the last couple of hours since the Beast-Prince had parted from her room, she had turned over the nature of their conversation in her mind, and what Quasi had said, too shocked to believe what was happening to her. That she was expected to keep the company of a Beast, so she and their family could survive. It went against everything she knew, and felt, well, like a monstrous betrayal to the vow she had made to her husband on their wedding night. She continued to keep vigil at her husband’s bedside.

His fever burned so that Belle was forced to strip all the blankets from the bed and wash his skin with a strange mixture of mint followed by cold water when the first layer dried from his shaking limbs. She did not think she could attend this Beast’s _precious_ _dinner_ , as her stomach would keep down no nourishment while Quasi was ill.

She never let go of him. Clutching onto his hand, Belle needed Quasi to know that she was right here where she was sitting, she wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. She prayed that somewhere in the haze of darkness that shrouded her love from her, he was aware of them both, praying he would wake up soon.

Belle hadn’t meant at all for her head to fall upon the pillows beside Quasi as she battled her own fatigue an hour before the dinner was supposed to take place with that accursed _Beast_.

She had only wanted to rest her eyes. But before she was aware of what was happening, she had drifted off into a fitful sleep. Her dreams were filled with him. Quasi calling out to her, he needed her help, but she couldn’t get to him in time. It felt as though there was a great cloud after her, pressing down on her, suffocating her, and choking the very breath from her lungs. She felt sensations on her skin, fingers moving over her cheek, brushing against her temple and into her dark chocolate mane.

This time, it was Belle who bolted upright and awake. To her wonder and relief, it had not been some awful angel of death that had touched her in her sleep with the pads of its icy cold fingertips. Belle’s almond-shaped dark eyes opened widely to Quasi’s weak, but loving smile cast upon her.

It had been his fingers that had caressed her skin while she had slept alongside her husband, and that still caressed her face with such a gentle, soft tenderness. His fever appeared to have broken, and she had returned to him. He lay on the pillow, his other arm draped protectively over Belle’s small but still quite noticeable baby bump.

“Love,” he said.

“You’ve come back to me,” Belle breathed out in relief and she rested her face next to his. “I have missed you, Quasi,” she whispered at the man’s temple. “I thought of you every minute.”

She kissed at his earlobe. “I dreamed of you. Of _us_ ,” she proclaimed boldly and shivered as her husband answered, meeting his wife’s emotional confession with equal longing.

Quasi turned to Belle, grunting with the effort to prop himself up on his elbows, grimacing slightly at the pain in his bandaged arm and his right thigh where the arrows had struck, but somehow, he managed enough to shimmy his way over until he hovered over her, and before Belle could protest that he was not well enough for this yet, that he needed to lay back and _rest_ , his lips met hers with fervor and it was more than enough for her to close her eyes and lose herself in the passion she felt for this man she was proud to call her husband, their tongues searched and tasted the sweetness of their long and slow kiss.

They clung together as if they were one instead of two, fingers grasping and pulled towards one another simultaneously. The space between them on the bed was only enough to breathe, and even that seemed far too great a distance. He kissed her long and slow. She met him with a deep, certain assuredness. She was not timid in what she wanted. Careful to be mindful of the bandage around his arm, he nestled his wife into the softness of the bed’s linens, bringing his weight carefully down on top of her with a light little groan.

He drew in a long, fervent breath as his hands hiked up the skirts of her dress and fitted himself inside of her, as now he had done several times before, though this was more difficult this time considering one, the nature of his injures, and two, her pregnancy.

“You will tell me if it hurts?” he managed to gasp out, barely stifling his smile as he pressed a series of gentle kisses down the column of her throat as her eyelids fluttered closed, his wife answering his question with a deep, low, wanting moan.

“It doesn’t _hurt_ , Quasi, I am _fine_ ,” Belle whispered in a faint, hoarse voice. “Please don’t stop,” she begged, panting now, sounding breathless. 

The sound of her excitement drove him even deeper, her gasps telling him it was exactly what she wanted, for him not to stop. Belle wrapped her arms around his waist, fumbling with his linen shirt, and barely had succeeded in pulling it over his head when he caught it and chucked it into the corner of the room with a frustrated low growl, her lips having been gone from his too long. She wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him close. Needing to feel more of his Belle, he brought her legs around him and very nearly lost control as she squeezed. Hard. She dug her fingers into his back, her spine arching in pleasure. He moaned at the pain her nails gave, thinking that it felt intoxicating.

This was what real love felt like. The reality of their forever that they had created for themselves. They clung to one another and grasped onto it like a lifeline.

He let a growl with one more push and felt himself give way. He could feel her body shudder in pleasure, and there was a horrible relief that wracked his broad, muscular chest as Quasi thought of the love he felt for his wife, that the bastard of a Beast-Prince was not going to be able to take _this_ away from him, ever.

Catching their breaths as they finished, reliving in what the two of them had just experienced, Belle and Quasi reluctantly forced themselves back to the present reality of the situation. They would have been happy to stay forever in bed, but both smiled at the thought of returning to it later. Quasi nestled his head against the crook of Belle’s shoulder on the soft mattress of the bed, his arm entwined around her waist. He clung to her as though Belle were his final lifeline, and in his mind, his wife was.

She propped herself up on her side to face him, winding her leg around his hip, her hand stroking his chest lightly.

Though as he looked at Belle, it didn’t take him long to realize that something was wrong as he leaned towards his wife to kiss her again, deeply, and passionately, but pulled back and reached up a slightly shaking fingertip to brush away a single tear.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, worry worming its way into the pit of his stomach. “Did I hurt you?” His heart seized in fear.

Belle quickly returned Quasi’s adoring gaze and abruptly shook her head, trying to sniffle away her onset of fresh tears.

“N—no,” she shakily assured the bell ringer. “You didn’t hurt me at all. Far from it, Quasi.”

Her pale, yet tear-streaked face was filled with so much unconditional and selfless love that Quasi felt his breaths catch in his throat and his tongue become thick in his mouth. No one had ever looked at him like this before as she was now.

“I love you,” Belle breathed, caressing Quasi’s left cheek.

He did not know how long they lay on top of the mattress like this, resting in their love while the world outside of their chambers went on without them for a while. Belle was more than content to watch the soft smile on Quasi’s handsome face settle into a strangely giddy smile as he continued to find new angles to stroke her body before his hand settled protectively on her belly.

She giggled to herself, thinking how wonderful it was to see her love so at ease in an unfamiliar place and relaxed, which she thought surprising considering the precariousness of her position. Her giggling fit roused Quasi from his mind’s self-musing on the perfection of his wife’s body, even more so now that she carried the babe that was theirs growing inside of her stomach.

“What?” Quasi laughed, a bit shocked, wondering just what on God’s green earth it was that his Belle could find so humorous.

Belle’s cheeks were flushed a rosy pink from the aftermath of their lovemaking as she allowed a finger to ghost over his face.

“It just seems that despite all of _this_ ,” she murmured, her gaze quickly becoming more solemn as she looked worriedly at his bandages on his arm and on his leg, “that you are relaxed. _Happy_. This is strange admittedly, considering the circumstances that brought us here, but I'm not complaining. It’s…good to see you like this. I like to see it, love.”

Her soft smile faltered as her mind flashed to the horrible image of Madellaine’s own sister shooting her husband with her bow and arrow not once but twice. “You could have been _killed_ , darling,” she whispered, still terrifying, letting out a shuddery sob.

“No.” Quasi scoffed and rolled his eyes. “It’ll take more than a couple of arrows to kill me, Belle. I’m right here where I’m sitting, and I’m not anywhere else,” he joked, a smile tugging the edges of his lips upward as he brushed back a lock of her dark hair off her face. “But I’m going to have to be _much_ more careful with you,” he smiled at her, with Belle realizing his words were a vow.

Belle smiled and sank into the warmth of her husband’s embrace. “Will we…” she bit her lip as her hand grazed along the top of her baby bump. “Will we live in your tower when our baby is born? Could you ever see us leaving the cathedral one day?”

He had been returned to her unharmed and she was not going to take any chances of losing Quasimodo ever again. She let out a content sigh as her lips pressed against his, deeper and more passionately than she ever had before. She broke apart and Quasi stared deeply into Belle’s dark chocolate brown eyes, marveling at the hue of the rich umber. His face suddenly became quite grim.

He moved his hand to gently cup her face. “My love,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been home now for _months_ ,” he told Belle softly.

When his wife looked at him quizzically with raised brows, he seemed almost shocked that Belle, as intelligent and keen as his wife was, did not realize the meaning behind his words. “I’ve been home since the day you stumbled into the north bell tower.”

His lips pressed against her forehead softly. “ _You_ are my home. You and our baby. Not the tower. Wherever you go, I go too. If this _place_ …” he spat in disgust, crinkling his nose as he looked around the lavish bedroom that seemed welly populated with furniture and yet in his mind, cold, aloof, and uninviting, “is meant to be our home now, then it’s meant to be. As long as you’re by my side, whether that’s our tower or here in this castle, _that_ is my home.” His mouth moved lower and rested on hers.

Belle felt instantly scorching hot by the feel of his skin on hers, losing herself in his kiss. As they brought their gazes up to meet one another, resting their heads back against the pillows, there came a frantic rapping of someone’s knuckles at the door.

Belle’s face immediately flushed high with color as she dove under the red wine goose feather down blanket, quite possibly the softest thing she had ever felt in her life, the moment the door barreled open and in stumbled Madellaine with a breathy squeak, one of her arms shot out in front of her and latched onto the table, her knuckles white with the effort to steady herself. She was gasping and panting raggedly, clutching at a stitch in her side as she looked towards Belle and Quasi, her face red.

Belle’s cheeks reddened and burned even more as she watched her new friend’s own face blush hot with shame and embarrassment at the moment of intimacy she had interrupted.

Quasi laughed and merely bent to lay a kiss on her cheek. “Love, why do you hide like this? As cute as it is when you're embarrassed, Madellaine is our _friend_ ,” he questioned, sounding like he was torn between his desire to laugh as he wrapped the sheet around his body and rose to stand in the corner to grab his shirt.

“We’re _married_. Everyone knows what couples do behind the privacy of their closed bedroom door. We’re having a _baby_. You shouldn’t care what others think. If they _don’t_ , well, they’d better get used to it. You’re my _wife_ , love, and I’ve no intention of stopping loving you at every opportunity.”

He looked towards Madellaine, though his good-natured smile instantly vanished.

“Wh—what’s wrong?” he stammered, his cheeks flushing, though for an entirely different reason other than embarrassment.

Madellaine did not look good at all. Her face, or more so her entire body, was bone-white with a mixture of fear and relief. She was dressed in a lavish purple silk gown, the likes of which he had not seen on her before, though he surmised that the change in attire must be a requirement of whatever this Beast-Prince was making Madellaine do for him and Belle. He sighed.

Her expression as she lifted her gaze and looked towards Belle who had hastily swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, her cheeks still red with embarrassment and clutching a blanket around her nude form, went from one of dread to what could only be described as unmitigated horror as her lips parted.

“You—you aren’t even _dressed_?” Madellaine exclaimed in a hushed, horrified whisper. “I—I don’t know _what’s_ happening, what’s going _on_ , b—but the—the Prince has been _cursed_ , mademoiselle! He—he’s a _monster_!” she spat, disgusted, groping towards Belle as her friend sauntered towards the armoire and rummaged through the piece of furniture for a suitable dress.

Madellaine practically threw herself forward on the balls of her heels and flung the doors of the armoire open for her even wider until she procured a stunning beautiful gown of deep, rich emerald green, simplistic in cut and style but the fabric was the finest velvet that Belle had ever seen in her entire life. “This one.”

“I couldn’t possibly take it—” Belle started to say as she let the blanket that she had wound tightly around herself loosen and fall to a crumpled heap at her feet, caring not about her modesty in front of her friend. She had been meaning to ask Madellaine anyways when the time was right if when her time was upon her, considering how the young woman standing in front of her had saved her life by performing the surgery and had healed her stab wounds if Madellaine would help Belle to deliver her babe.

“You _have_ to!” Madellaine squeaked, her voice lingering somewhere between frustrated and sounding utterly terrified. “The—the _master_ of the castle is already angry with you for being late,” she spat, shuddering as a tremor went down her spine as visions of the Beast-Prince she’d caught sight of waiting for her dear friend in the dining room.

She breathed a sigh of relief and turned away, reaching for a hairbrush as Belle silently dressed, as did her husband, though Quasi was looking thoroughly less pleased with the idea of his wife dining with another man, beast or not. Though he swallowed hard past the lump in his throat as Belle turned, the skirts of the dark green velvet dress flowing with her movements. Just barely hiding the evidence of her pregnancy. It wouldn’t be long before whoever acted as a seamstress to this castle’s prince would have to take out Belle’s dresses and make them looser, unless of course, Belle insisted on doing that herself.

He strode towards his wife and rested his chin on her shoulder from behind, while Madellaine pointedly looked away for a moment to give them privacy, though the young blonde was still looking quite pink in the cheeks for having interrupted their intimate moment as husband and wife, awkwardly looking at the floor and nervously flitting her gaze towards the now-closed door.

Madellaine spoke up, glancing cautiously towards Belle and Quasi over her shoulder. Her hardened expression softened as she looked at them.

“I _know_ you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, Belle, trust me, I _get_ it, I _understand_ , more than you could possibly know. I know what it is like, Belle,” she grumbled darkly under her breath as she brushed her hands on the front of the skirts of her long silk purple dress. “But you’ve captured the attention of the Prince of these lands, the beast now though he may be, and may he _stay_ that way if you ask me, I think the Prince deserves it more than any other soul here in France, but I digress. This is your chance. You have to start thinking of this as an opportunity, if not for yourself and your husband then for your child. Do whatever you _can_ to survive, and if that means suffering his company over a simple dinner, or pouring his wine, whatever he asks of you, then bloody just _do_ it if it means that you’ll stay alive and your baby will as well. Think of your child, _not_ your pride,” she said, sounding angry. Do you realize how lucky you are, how many other women in Paris crave for this spot that you find yourself in, within just a few short weeks?” Madellaine snapped, not bothering to disguise the note of bitterness in her voice as it seeped its way to the surface just then.

As Madellaine’s voice turned grimmer, Belle started to listen to her friend in earnest and consider her words. Everything the young blonde woman was saying was true, and yet, despite this, she could not quell the odd churning pit in her stomach, causing the babe within her to kick. Belle let out a tiny gasp and settled her hand over her stomach and looked towards the mirror.

The dress was beautiful, even she had to begrudgingly admit it. Her long dark hair cascaded in loose waves as Madellaine finished running the brush through her hair and chucked it back on top of the chest of drawers where she’d found it. Just as Madellaine was about to reach for the doorknob, however, their conversation was interrupted by a horrible roar.

Belle froze and instinctively gripped onto Quasi’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Madellaine was suddenly looking quite pale and even more terrified than she’d been when she stumbled into the room in the first place. It didn’t sound good.

Belle could hear the voice of Monsieur Lumiere, who was sounding extremely frustrated and agitated with the Beast-Prince’s notably despicable temper. “Your Highness, please reconsider this! You will _never_ win the mademoiselle’s affections by behaving in such an uncouth way,” Lumiere implored him.

Belle froze, hardening her gaze, and turned towards Madellaine and Quasi. “Both of you _stay_. _I’ll_ deal with him.”

What little color was left in Quasi’s already pallid, if not a little bit peaky expression drained, and he shot out an arm to catch her around the forearm.

“Belle, _no_!” he shouted, sounding furious.

But his wife, however, paid no heed to her husband’s words and stepped out into the hallway, slamming the door behind her. The Beast was quite literally stalking its way down the hallway towards her, accompanied by Lumiere, Cogsworth, and Mrs. Potts, with all three of them wearing equally stunned expressions of stunned disbelief on their faces, quite shocked.

Belle planted the heels of her shoes firmly into the cold cobblestoned ground as she turned towards the Beast resolutely, hardening her facial features into a mask of calm serenity, though the young inventor’s daughter felt anything but calm right now at the sight of a hulking, vicious monster who looked more wolf than man stalking towards her, his expression looking murderous.

She felt quite confident that her husband at least, was going to be whipped for her insolence or turned out of the castle and left to fend for himself in the Wolves’ Woods. She could not let that happen. It made her angry even just thinking of such a thing, and Belle swallowed past a lump in her throat as a muscle in her jaw twitched in anger, though Belle fought it back down.

From a distance, the Beast was looking angry, yes, though as he closed off the gap of space from where Belle stood and where he paused to take in her appearance, she could clearly see the Beast-Prince growling and snarling in fury, and she felt the full extent of his ire.

Belle knew she could not let Quasi get in trouble and face the Beast’s wrath for her initial reluctance and hesitance to go.

“How _dare_ you defy my commands, you insolent little b—” the Beast snarled, though his voice faltered and petered off when his gaze slid away from Belle’s face and her hair to take in the gown she wore. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

For which there was a tiny part of Belle that was glad as she seized the opportunity of this brief moment of speechlessness from the Beast-Prince to interject and calm down the Beast’s ire.

“Your Highness,” Belle began hesitantly, ducking her head so the Beast would not see her growing annoyance at being forced to address this monster with proper edict when she felt, after what the Prince had attempted to do to her the last time they met, he did not deserve it, and in her mind, deserved every bit of whatever witch’s curse he had been placed under. “It is my fault for keeping you waiting, monsieur. I had every intention of attending the—”

“It’s _my_ fault.” Belle turned around in shock as she saw Quasi storm out of their chambers and down the hall, moving to stand in front of his wife, ignoring the Beast crinkling its snout in disgust as it no doubt took in the freakishly tall, towering form of Notre Dame’s bell ringer. “I distracted my wife, Beast,” he spat. “If you are to punish anyone, then punish _me_ , but let my wife _alone_.”

The Beast’s piercing blue eyes made a quick scan of the bell ringer’s unusual form before making an odd scoffing noise that, due to the nature of the deep droll of his baritone voice, sounded more like a growl that sent the fine hairs on the back of Quasi’s neck upright, though Quasi hardened his own expression in response to the Beast Prince’s aggression and stood his ground.

“I ought to have you dragged to the dungeons and _flayed_ for your insolence, _wretch_ ,” the Beast spat angrily, though Belle couldn’t be sure, something in the monster’s glacier-cold stare softened, though his eyes widened as his gaze raked over her form in the dark forest green velvet gown Madellaine had forced her in.

“ _Please_ ,” Belle implored the master of the castle, stepping in between her husband and the Beast, the two men standing so close their noses were almost touching at their confrontation.

It must have been the use of the word ‘please’ that did it and hearing the sincerity and desperation in the woman’s voice. He let out a low growl and turned away, motioning with a curt wave of his arm for Belle and Madellaine to follow him.

“ _Come_ ,” he barked hoarsely. “Not the wretch, it stays _here_ ,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Ladies, if you will follow me.”

Belle shot Quasi an apologetic look and gave his hand a light, reassuring squeeze, hoping it would be enough to convey her message that she did not want to go with this—this _monster_.

He shot her an understanding look that told Belle he understood. “ _Go_ ,” he mouthed silently, leaning forward to give his wife a peck on the cheek. “I will be all right. Do what you must.”

His reluctant yet saddened little smile was the last thing Belle chose to focus on as Madellaine gripped onto Belle’s hand, and Belle reluctantly allowed herself to be led down the corridor, arm-in-arm with Madellaine and away from Quasi, towards the concept of spending an evening in this wretched Beast’s company.

Belle bit down on her bottom lip as she shot a silent prayer to God or whoever was listening that she’d be able to mind her temper, a temper that she had sadly thought Gaston had an influence in over the short year of their marriage of watching him.

Her only thought as she gripped onto Madellaine’s hand for silent encouragement and support, that flitted through her mind was a poignant but a simple one, one that tormented Belle.

_I hope this isn’t a mistake_.


	64. The Castle's New Librarian

**CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE**

Belle followed closely alongside Madellaine, wanting to still put as much distance between herself and this Beast-Prince as possible, though she quickly noticed something was wrong the moment Madellaine furrowed her brows in a frown and spoke up.

“M—Monsieur, the—the dining hall is that way,” Madellaine called out, raising her voice to ensure that she was heard and jerked her thumb back over her shoulder and towards the leftmost corridor. Though Madellaine immediately fell silent and pursed her lips shut tightly together when she heard the Beast let out a low warning growl and peeked over his shoulder at the young blonde and shot Belle’s friend an admonishing look.

“I ought to have you thrown out of my castle for your theatrics,” he grumbled presently, and it took the girls a moment to figure out whom he was speaking to, and neither one of them dared to say a single word for fear of stroking his anger even further. “As it so happens, I find myself without much of an appetite. You and I shall dine together tomorrow night, mademoiselle,” he called out, his words causing Belle’s heart to sink to the pit of her stomach as she realized there was no way to get out of the inevitable dinner. “No. There is a _room_ I wish to show you, that I think you will enjoy, princess.”

Belle couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn that the Beast-Prince smirked a little. It made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand upright. A thousand and one questions burned on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not give these queries a voice, not wishing to further anger him. They paused outside a set of wide, double oak doors, one of his paws on the golden doorknob, pulling it.

The doors swung inward and open with a loud, groaning creak, and Belle immediately raised her hand to her nose to pinch it to avoid breathing in an accumulative amount of so much dust. She exchanged a brief but worrying little glance with Madellaine out of the corner of her eye, her fingernails gripping tightly around Madellaine’s sleeve before following the Beast inside, nervously stepping over the threshold of the entryway.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and what Belle and Madellaine were met with was a sight neither woman would forget. Books. As Belle turned her head this way and that, struggling to take in the ornate details of the massive library, the unending collection of books, everywhere she looked, all books.

The spines of thousands of books all peered out at Belle and Madellaine from their spots on the shelves pressed against the wall. The books waited to speak their words, their ink on their papery leaves would always stay even though centuries had passed and will pass. They invited a conversation with the thoughts, one unspoken and kind. In a way, they were the legacy of thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be fleeting.

The Beast made an odd little strangled noise at the back of his throat, keeping his arms folded behind his back as he sauntered along the edge of the wall, studying Belle’s look of awe.

“Tamper your excitement, Dupont, this is merely another room for the two of you to _clean_ ,” he barked in a rough voice. “I’d better not see a _single_ speck of dust on any of these books, Belle.”

Words left Belle as her head whiplashed sharply upward to regard the master of this castle. She parted her lips open to say something, anything, as she stared into those bright blue eyes burning bright with annoyance, and the beginning of an emotion Belle thought she recognized, but it was too fleeting for her to identify it.

Her heart fell silent as she plucked one of the books off the shelves nearby and brushed off a thick layer of dust and grime.

“Nothing to say?” The Beast drolled, the corner of his lips twisting upwards into a smirk. “How… _disappointing_. Now I wonder where that _tongue_ of yours went, lovely little belle.”

She _tried_. But she couldn’t force her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as the Beast pointed a claw in Belle’s face. She heard Madellaine let out a tiny gasp of surprise and moved to drag Belle back to retreat with her, but Belle couldn’t even manage to get her legs to start working.

There it was _again_. That brief little twinkle of amusement that darted through the Beast-Prince’s pale blue irises. Belle blinked, startled at seeing any other emotion other than his usual cold listlessness, though he did not give her a chance to respond.

“Do you _truly_ have nothing to say, mademoiselle? I offer you the position of this estate’s librarian and you are speechless.”

Belle felt her heart leap up into her throat. “L— _Librarian_?” she squeaked in a small, meek, and hoarse little gasp of surprise.

The Beast-Prince kept his back turned towards the women as he sauntered towards the windowsill and looked out, though, in the encroaching darkness, Belle doubted he could see anything.

“Indeed,” he answered in a bemused voice. “My last librarian was a bumbling fool, didn’t bother to organize the books in the way they ought, the lazy bastard,” the Beast-Prince growled through gritted teeth before turning to look in Belle’s direction. “I knew the night I found you in the library in the cathedral, young mademoiselle, that you are quite fond of books. If you’re to stay here you might as well be comfortable, though why you’d choose that wretch as your husband is beyond me, little dove,” he spat.

“Because I _love_ him, monsieur,” Belle snapped, her temper suddenly flaring as she felt the need to defend her husband. “That should be reason enough for you. I don’t know what it was that you were thinking by bringing the three of us here.” She paused to cast a wary glance over her shoulder at Madellaine, who’d absentmindedly picked up a book and was thumbing the pages, though not really reading. She suspected it was merely a distraction to avoid looking the Beast in those cold blue eyes of his. “He is where my heart belongs. What did you hope to _gain_ by bringing me here, Your Majesty?” she asked, more curious than angry as she gingerly set down the book that she’d been holding.

“ _Freedom_ ,” the Beast answered darkly, though his words came out as more of a flustered sigh. Belle and Madellaine stared, waiting for the explanation. “This is a witch’s curse,” he spat in disgust, gesturing towards himself with a wave of his left paw.

He had not meant to bring up the Enchantress who had trespassed upon his lands, never mind that it was his property, his castle, that woman seemed to be of a mind to do as she liked.

Belle’s ears perked up at the revelation. She had sensed that much of course, but if the man was cursed, perhaps there was a way to undo it. “And…somehow you think that _we_ can help you?” She could hardly believe the words coming from her mouth.

“I thought that perhaps…” The Prince suddenly found himself at a loss for words, stammering for the first time in the young mademoiselle’s presence as the brunette belle before him rested a hand on the small swell of her baby bump. “That you would _willingly_ choose to stay. Make no mistake, mademoiselle, I’m not looking for _love_. Merely a caretaker for this large estate.”

Belle immediately took offense to his judgmental tone as she straightened incredulously. Madellaine sensing danger, set down the book she held clutched to her chest, and darted forward.

“Monsieur,” Madellaine began hesitantly, shooting her friend a withering look, silently warning Belle to stay silent. “The lady Belle and I will graciously look after this library for you, whatever it is that you would command of us, Your Highness, but I _beg_ of you, do not put Belle in this precarious position, sire. The woman is married, and expecting a child in another seven months,” she began, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks.

Madellaine bit down on her bottom lip, giving Belle the appearance that her friend was in the midst of doing some very quick thinking. Belle watched, silently marveling at her friend’s bravery, as the young blonde lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly.

“If you are to put any woman in this castle into the sort of role that you’d had in mind for Belle, then _I_ will take her place. I have seen in times past how you looked at my sister, sire, surely, there must be some good in you. You care for Maria, Your Highness, then why not extend that same courtesy to _me_ , but let Belle _alone_ ,” she said boldly, though her shy voice shook.

Madellaine opened her mouth to say more, though the firm grip of Belle’s fingernails around her forearm interrupted her steady stream of conscious thought, cutting the young blonde from what she had been about to say next.

“Madellaine, my friend,” Belle spoke up calmly, silencing the young woman who was quickly becoming a close friend to her, perhaps her best in this life as she took a cautious half-step forward to stand in between Madellaine and the Beast in hopes of rectifying the tension now in the magnificent library between the three of them. “We are guests in the Prince’s home. We should treat him with courtesy as we would any other. I thank you, my friend, for your selfless sacrifice, what you are offering to do, but it’s not necessary.” Belle spoke to the Beast-Prince apathetically in a stiff and formal tone as though Belle were speaking to a stranger. “There’s no need for you to be troubled, Madellaine,” Belle reassured the young blonde, whose face was paling in both anger and shock as she looked towards Belle, her lips slightly agape. “The master of the castle knows that I am married and expecting,” she answered, hardening her voice slightly, hearing the edges toughen as she fixed the Beast with an uncharacteristically cold glower. “Even _he_ would not stoop so low as to take another man’s _wife_. That behavior would reflect poorly in his aristocratic circles. If he knows what is _good_ for him, he will respect personal boundaries.”

She looked deeply into the Prince’s glacier-cold eyes. The Beast stiffened, baring his fangs, though even he was having trouble suddenly explaining the sudden onset of peace that had begun to wallow in his soul the longer he spent in her company. Belle looked at the Beast, her hardened gaze unabashed and unwavering, never once breaking eye contact, though it was evident to both the Beast and Madellaine that the master of the castle frightened her, though Belle was too prideful to admit it.

Her brows furrowed as she looked at the monster in front of them, the man who had kidnapped her, had almost succeeded twice now in assaulting her, and now seemed to possess the audacity in his thick, aristocratic skull that she would abandon her entire life that she had created with Quasi…for him. No way.

“Did you honestly expect that I would cast aside my husband for _you_?” she queried, unable to believe her own words.

Slowly, Belle lifted her gaze to look the Prince in the eyes. “I will do as you ask, monsieur, and help Madellaine to clean and care for your library, and the rest of your castle as well if you should so wish it,” Belle told him calmly, trying to remain kind, though, in this arrogant creature’s presence, it was becoming increasingly difficult. “I truly wish you the best of everything in…in breaking your curse,” she stammered nervously, and she really did hope that the monster in front of her could change. “And I am sorry that you have brought me here, but it has all been for naught.” Belle looked towards the Beast-Prince sympathetically and shook her head softly in incredulous disbelief, as her right fingers began to twist at her gold wedding band. “But there is nothing for you, Highness, by keeping us.”

As the Beast blinked owlishly at her a couple of times, Belle could almost swear the creature was looking rather, well… _amused_ , and that was if such a word could even be described to this literal monster of an aristocrat who showed almost no emotions in those soulless blue eyes of his, she knew.

“I am the master of this castle, pretty little belle,” he stated quite coldly as he straightened his posture, still keeping his arms folded behind his back. “ _You_ are in no position to tell me what _I_ need. Is there anything else that you require of me? If not, I think it prudent if you return to your chambers at once and get some rest. I expect you in this library at eight o’clock sharp in the morning, and when I come to check on you tomorrow night, I’d best not see a single speck of dust on any of these books, Belle.”

Belle nodded, casting a glance around the truly magnificent library once more. “There are more books in here than I could ever read in a lifetime,” she murmured, her voice somewhere between awe and wonder. The Beast had already begun to turn on his heels to go. She wasn’t sure, but she swore he had looked back.

“Well.” He made an odd little sniffing noise through his snout as he paused in the doorway, shooting her an odd little bemused sort of half-smirk that was more like a pained grimace. “I hope that you can _clean_ faster than you can _read_ , pretty thing.”

“Why? Why are you doing all of this?” Belle blurted out, the question tumbling unchecked before she could manage to stop it.

Her question gave the Beast pause, she could tell by the way the creature gave a start at the query she had just posed to him. The Beast-Prince swiveled at the waist slowly, thinking to be at least considering her words, before finally, he spoke up quietly.

“I’m tired of being a _beast_ , mademoiselle. That’s _why_. It is clear you and your… _husband_ ,” he spat the word as though it were poison that had settled and lingered upon his tongue, “think me what I am. A _brute_ , a heartless _monster_. But I assure you, it’s not the case. I hope…in time…that I might yet still change your mind.”

That strange half-smile, an awkward sort of small bow, and he was out of the library, slamming the doors shut behind him, leaving Madellaine and Belle alone to their own devices in the library. Madellaine exhaled a shuddering breath through her nose and slumped to the floor, using one of the bookshelves as a brace for her back, crossing one of her legs over the other and reaching up a violently trembling hand to tuck a wisp of her blonde shaggy hair back behind her ear.

“Thank _God_ ,” Madellaine murmured darkly under her breath, casting a withering glower towards the door. “I thought he’d _never_ leave. Are you all right?” she asked.

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered weakly, though Belle knew her voice lacked the conviction to sell the argument she really wanted to make. She allowed the anger to simmer in her veins. Belle’s mind felt like it was reeling as she struggled to process what had just happened. She’d been made the—the _librarian_ of this castle. Assuming the master of the castle kept his word and did not so much as lay a claw on her, but the Beast’s parting sentence made her feel wracked with guilt, like a fool.

_I’m tired of being a beast_. Though before her mind could mull over it further, her friend spoke, unmoved from her spot on the floor. Sensing that Madellaine was too flustered, or perhaps too still in shock to move from her spot, Belle joined her on the floor, resting against the bookcase, scooting so close to the young blonde that their shoulders touched.

“If it pleases you, my friend, I would like to accompany you wherever you go in the castle as long as we’re here, in case…” Madellaine swallowed thickly down past the lump in her throat, “in case help doesn’t come for us.”

Belle blinked, startled upon hearing the note of doubt in her friend’s voice. “Help will come,” she promised, though she knew her own tone lacked the conviction to sell the argument she really wanted to make. “Darius will send someone or come himself. I think he will. He’s become quite a good friend to me during the months I’ve lived at the cathedral, and I can tell that he cares for you. I—I saw it, my friend, whether or not you could see it, I don’t know, but Quasi and I do. If anything, he will come for you, and when he does, my husband I will go with you,” she vowed, though she could tell Madellaine did not seem convinced.

Already, her friend’s pale blue eyes had taken on a glossy sheen, looking quite far away and it took her ages to speak again. “I hope so,” Madellaine murmured through gritted teeth, picking at one of the buttons on her purple corset until Belle had to gently reach across her friend’s lap and slap her hand away.

Sensing the topic of whatever had transpired between her and Darius a few nights ago was still bothering the young blonde, Belle decided a change in conversation was in order. She would have to bring up Darius another time, perhaps tomorrow, when the two of them were assigned what was sure to be an all-day task of cleaning the library.

“Do you truly want to follow me _everywhere_?” Belle asked in what she hoped was a casual tone. “It’s not like I can _escape_. The Wolves’ Woods would get us lost before we could blink an eye. And I _can’t_ leave you and Quasi.”

Madellaine blinked owlishly as she slowly swiveled her head to look towards Belle, her mind processing her friend’s words. She shook her head sadly to herself. “I don’t think you’d escape, Belle,” she answered in just as casual a tone. “Not in your current condition anyways. I’m your friend. I can protect you.”

“Protect me? Who could possibly want to hurt me here?” she asked, though she knew her words were utterly, horribly naïve. Madellaine looked at her, briefly assessing her expression.

The young blonde woman did not reply to Belle’s question with an answer, but then again, Madellaine thought she didn’t need to. Judging by the hardening sheen in her icy blue eyes, Belle quickly realized that her friend meant someone, one specific someone, and that ‘someone’ had just appointed her with the new position of the castle’s librarian and caretaker. It made her scared.

_The Prince_. Belle let out a tiny sigh of defeat as her shoulders slumped forward in defeat and she ducked her head, a lock of her dark chocolate hair tumbling in front of her face. She’d not been wrong in her initial feelings concerning the cursed man.

Belle looked incredulously at Madellaine, unable to shake the foreign feeling of warmth in the pit of her stomach that she hoped her friend would be wrong about the Prince, as despicable as the man’s behavior towards her in the past had been, she hoped he could change his ways, that everyone deserved a second chance. No matter how dangerous it would prove to be for her, Belle knew she had to take it upon herself to discover what was really going on with the Prince’s sudden shift in his countenance.

Her life, Quasi’s, their babe’s, and Madellaine’s, depended on it. And Belle could not shake the feeling she will find it sooner rather than later…

She could only hope that before that time came, that Darius would come.


	65. A Sister's Blessing

**CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR**

LeFou let out a dramatic groan for what had to be the tenth time since entering the cursed Wolves’ Wood as he allowed himself to collapse in a rather dramatic fashion onto the ground, still clutching the length of iron-wrought manacles and dragging Maria to the ground with him, barely managing to stifle his triumphant smirk upon hearing her elicit a startled shriek of pain.

Closing his eyes and ignoring the wench, he forced himself to focus on the evening’s air and of the cold, smooth ground underneath him. LeFou could tell he was going to be chilly tonight, especially considering Darius from the sounds of his and Monsieur Gold’s discussion, didn’t want to risk a fire out in the open.

He just felt glad they were finally given the opportunity to give their aching legs and feet a much-needed rest. The former soldier and priest’s pace wasn’t exactly easy for LeFou to keep up with, as his legs were quite short, so of course, he was exhausted.

After what felt like God only knew how many hours of endless brisk walking in the bloody freezing cold, at a pace that hardly slowed down for anything as Darius guided them through the Woods, keeping LeFou and Maria as close to him as possible so Madellaine’s sister could tell them which pathways to take.

Darius had finally agreed to stop for the night, and all the while they still hadn’t found anything for dinner, not a damn thing. There were no streams, no ponds, or lakes, and outside of the Wolves’ Woods was so barren and decrepit that few plants seemed to grow here, much less ones that grew any sort of berries.

Night had long since fallen by this point, in fact, it had been for bloody hours. They’d been using the light from the moon to navigate for longer than LeFou could say. He was so exhausted, and more than a little happy and relieved they’d stopped walking.

His feet and legs hurt like hell, he was exhausted and starved. He was torn between wanting to curl up into a ball near Monsieur Gold’s fire he was making relatively quick work of and sleep for as many hours as he possibly could and wanting to help look for something to eat. Maria volunteered to go look, and LeFou was reluctant to let her out of his sight even for a second.

Without so much as a sound, Darius reached towards the ground and picked up the same bow and arrow he’d confiscated from Maria, the very same one she’d shot her sister and Belle’s husband with. LeFou bristled from his spot on the perch and looked around nervously, alert for any danger, and tried to ignore the mad blush speckling along his cheeks as he heard Maria snort.

“Coward,” Maria de Barreau muttered tauntingly under her breath, to which LeFou tried his absolute hardest to ignore her.

He was fixated on the priest’s movements. Former, he had to remind himself. He’d listened in to Darius’s instructions to that pretty nun back at the cathedral to burn his habits. He could only hope that this man was better at wooing his woman than Gaston had been towards Belle, LeFou thought, an abrupt bitterness seeping into the pit of his stomach as he thought of old Gaston.

_Better off dead, I guess_ , he wondered, returning his attention to Darius. He was not alarmed, but meticulous, calm in his movements as he held Maria’s bow and arrow in his hands.

He watched the man notch the arrow in the bow, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration at something in the far off distance. Even his feet made no crunching echoes on the snow as he crept into the open forest clearing they had stopped in nearby.

It was almost as if the man had become the wind itself. LeFou watched, utterly fascinated and mesmerized, just as he had when Gaston had been on the hunt, as Darius Barret came to a stop, crouched slightly, and raised the weapon to his eye.

The soldier needed only a split second to take aim and let the arrow fly. The arrow traveled so fast, it was almost like lightning. LeFou could barely see its trajectory as the thin bit of wood sped across the barren forest clearing. A muscle in Barret’s jaw twitched as he watched with ease as the arrow traveled towards his target.

Finally, Darius’s arrow that he’d let loose found its prize. Over a hundred yards, a white rabbit that had blended perfectly into the snow-covered forest floor of the Wolves’ Woods. It fell to the snow, lifeless and without any suffering. LeFou was aware he was gaping as he felt his mouth go slack, unable to take his eyes off Barret as the dark-haired soldier trod across the clearing to retrieve his kill that he surmised was meant to serve as dinner.

He’d not even _seen_ the animal at such a distance, and one quick glance towards Monsieur Gold and Maria told LeFou that they hadn’t seen it either. Maria had a look of shimmering arousal in her blue eyes that LeFou recognized from the wenches back home in their own village and repressed his urge to roll his eyes in disgust. As Darius returned to where they had gathered intending to make camp for the night, he could see that the rabbit’s fur was as white as the snow and the ground that had surrounded it then.

He knew not even Gaston could have made such a quick and clean shot from that kind of a distance. And what was even more refreshing was unlike Gaston, Darius wasn’t boastful of his skills. Perhaps he had a lot to learn about this former soldier boy.

Darius didn’t speak much as he turned his attention towards cleaning and preparing the kill he’d caught for their meal.

The group quickly fell into a rhythm of sorts as they worked to ready themselves for the cold night ahead. Gold and LeFou worked to cut branches off the tree they’d sheltered under.

Resting the limbs against one another, they soon were able to craft a tiny makeshift hut that would protect them from the worst of the frigid elements for the night. Maria used her dagger (with close supervision from Gold and LeFou) to strike at a flintstone to start a fire and feed the kindling that she’d managed to collect.

Honestly, her efforts at gathering kindling to stay busy were more from an effort to avoid watching Darius skin and gut their dinner, thinking the man was probably imagining the rabbit’s carcass as that of her own, but she looked up from positioning the makeshift spit that she’d crafted of several twigs just in time to see Barret rip the flesh off the rabbit carcass, leaving only the sinewy muscles in its place that was to be cooked.

Imagining it was her body in place of the rabbit’s, Maria couldn’t manage to stifle her reflexive gasp and looked away, repulsed. Darius noticed upon hearing her gag and hurried to finish in order to cause Madellaine sister no further distress.

Once the meat was properly secured to the skewers, Darius sandwiched himself in between Maria and LeFou, with Gold keeping a respectful distance and sitting across their campfire.

The group sat in silence as the meat cooked, and soon the mouthwatering aroma of cooking meat filled the area, in contrast to the wretched smells of death and blood only moments before when Darius had been working diligently to clean out the rabbit.

Darius removed the cooked rabbit from the fire, using Maria’s own knife (much to her chagrin) to split the roast. He handed a segment to LeFou, who began to nibble lightly at it, though all of them were equally repulsed when Maria attacked her rabbit’s leg with a ravenous, almost wolfish vengeance, ripping off a chunk of it with her teeth, much like a rabid she-wolf would do.

It seemed an eternity before Gold finally shattered the awkward, heavy silence that had settled and lingered over the group, seemingly interested in tearing his gaze away from Madellaine’s sister’s horrid eating habits. He leaned forward on the log that he’d perched himself on and folded his hands together in front of him, the light from the fire giving his waxy skin an almost amber sort of glow, sending a chill of fear down LeFou’s spine. “Regarding the matter that I was hoping to discuss with you, Barret, time is of the utmost importance. It cannot wait much longer, as it pertains to your future and the young mademoiselle's, besides…”

Though before Monsieur Gold could go any further, Darius let out a low warning growl and raised his hand to interrupt him.

“I _appreciate_ your concern for my well-being, monsieur,” he simply said, and there was a note of impatience laced throughout his quiet and reserved voice that warned Rumple not to bring up the matter any further. “But until Madellaine is by my side again and Belle and her husband are out of danger, my hands are _tied_. You must understand this matter concerning me, whatever it is, has to _wait_. I will discuss it with you _after_ we’ve returned from this Prince’s castle and not a moment before that.”

The sigh of frustration that strung from Gold’s throat was exasperated as the group finished eating, though Darius couldn’t help but notice how Madellaine’s sister shot him withering looks.

“You’re the Prince’s consort, aren’t you?” Darius asked inquisitively, quirking a brow at Madellaine’s sister as he drank heavily from a wineskin of water that Alice had packed for them.

He scrutinized Madellaine’s sister’s appearance, settling on her golden-blonde curls, slightly dirtied from her traveling, and thought that perhaps if her sister were kinder, she’d have been pretty, but the constant expression she wore that looked as though she had stepped in mud and shit did the girl no favors.

Maria flushed and mumbled something incoherent as she ripped off another chunk of cooked meat from her now-almost-cleaned rabbit’s leg as LeFou’s face turned a pale shade of green.

“Once, yes,” she commented, keeping her reddening gaze fixated on the fire roaring in front of her, instead of at Gold and Darius and LeFou. She bit down on her bottom lip in a slight pout. “But milord has moved on from the likes of someone like _me_. His interests are on _her_ ,” she spat, her words like poisoned honey dripping from her mouth, unwilling to speak Belle Dupont’s name. “Therefore, such a… _dalliance_ , if it pleases you, is inappropriate. Those days are nothing but wind in the air now, a distant memory. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Maria licked her lips to moisten them as her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry at the mention of the Prince, and the dozens, perhaps hundreds of times they’d lain together flitting to the front of her mind, but she swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat and waited for Darius to speak.

When Prince Adam had dismissed Maria, effectively cutting her out of his life for good, it hit her hard. His cold words, flat with no emotion laced throughout them whatsoever, were like swords and daggers breaking Maria's heart apart. The first day without him by her side hadn't even felt real.

A nightmare come true, maybe. Maria found herself longing to wake up. But that never happened.

She had cried. She had cried and cried until there were no more tears left in her to cry. The hearth keep had cursed God and His Angels, wondering how it was possible for the deities to inflict so much pain inside Maria's chest. She was now utterly alone. Completely, utterly alone. Who would hold her hand, bite her ear in the way that she liked? She was no longer permitted to be a part of the hunting company, either. Who would tell her that they thought she had a pretty face? Not Adam. Not him. Not anyone, anymore.

Maria now lacked that someone who had been with her going on almost a full year's cycle. That same someone who promised her that she would always belong to him, that he was not going anywhere, neither was she. Only now for him to be lusting after a married wench that did not at all appreciate him.

Maria felt her jaw clench in anger and ground her teeth together in anticipation, wondering exactly what it was that the handsome soldier boy wanted from her. Soon enough, Adam would forget about Maria. He would forget the hearth keep the way he forgot the other girls. All the ones he had most likely made similar promises to in order to entice them into his bed.

She briefly wondered if Adam had hurt at all when she had left his chambers that day in a fury. When he had claimed that he was no longer happy with her by her side, when he said he had never loved her, she had changed. When in fact, just the night prior, the day before the Dupont wench had arrived, Adam had let Maria love him. The night before it all. He had kissed her that night, told her she was his forever. Had Adam lied?

Or were his feelings able to fade from Maria so quickly the minute the girl set foot onto the Prince’s estate’s soil. Maria knitted her brows together in a frown as she realized her former lover was nothing more than a coward. A coward that Maria had every right to hate.

She still remembered their last exchange. _"You act as if I've never seen you naked before."_ He muttered with mocking amusement, referring to their brief love affair from days back—in the most tender stages of their… _relationship_ , if Maria could even call what they had that at all. She simply turned her gaze to him, swift, emanating with resigned sympathy. _"Because you haven't, Adam."_

Adam had withdrawn his affections for Maria right at the start of Belle’s arrival to his castle, just as soon as Maria become addicted to his touch. How quickly Adam gave her only ice. Waiting for Maria to pour in the warmth that the bastard had refused to make for himself.

Then, as she drained over the days, Adam had taken even more from the hearth keep, accused her more, had ice storms in his eyes more often because of her, more harshly…until she broke. And Adam had blamed Maria for that, citing feelings of insurmountable envy and jealousy. By doing so, Adam had, in a way, absolved himself…and he was a coward. An unspeakable coward. Maria clenched her jaw in anger and narrowed her eyes to slits. She should hate him. She should be incredibly angry with Adam, but she just couldn't. If she was going to be angry with anyone, it was Belle for effectively ruining her life, by taking away the one good thing that Maria had left, and now with Adam gone, she had nothing.

She _was_ nothing, and that was what Maria hated about herself the very most. Maria would have done anything for Adam. The hearth keep wanted to be the very best that she could for her Prince. In fact, Maria was the very best for Adam, but her best wasn't ever enough to satisfy him, was it?

Especially not with Belle in the picture. Maybe that was what hurt her the very most, and what prompted her to develop this idea that had laid dormant within the back of her mind for the last two months, silently watching the pair of them. How Adam's eyes would settle upon Belle’s when the bitch thought that he wasn't looking.

His easy smiles and gentle teasing strung Maria's heart and blinded her eyes to his true self. She had been willing to overlook Adam's veering lies, questionable behaviors and shady actions, and glanced the other way whenever Adam sought out the company of other women more than hers, convincing herself that it was merely that emotion known as jealousy rearing its ugly head.

But when Adam strayed, it was then that Maria knew for certain that he had taken her for a mindless fool, nothing more than a bedwarmer to warm his bed these lonely cold nights of winter. The Prince had made a mockery of the hearth keep's affections and then turned the tables on Maria, blaming her for straying when she brought up the idea of marrying another man.

_"Who are you going to marry, hmm?"_ he'd growled into the shell of her ear during one of their rendezvous’ one morning. _"No one will take you. Just look at you. You're mine, Maria_."

Then he'd bit her ear. She shuddered at the memory of it.

Maria exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose and spoke softly, feeling her voice go dangerously quiet and soft.

“I hear you’re becoming… _fond_ of my little sister,” Maria announced to the little group in a judging, condescending tone as Darius took another generous swig of his water and choked, having to result in Monsieur Gold begrudgingly thumping him on the back until the water had dislodged itself from the wrong pipe.

For once his bold and fearless demeanor wavered upon hearing Madellaine’s sister’s words. He looked up wearily and studied Maria across the way with no small measure of distaste in his eyes. He didn’t know how much Maria knew of his infatuation and growing love and affection for Madellaine, but whatever she had heard, judging by the poisonous look in her cobalt blue eyes, he swiftly intended to set the record straight, no matter the cost.

“What are your intentions towards my sister, Barret?” she questioned, practically shaking with fury. “What do you plan to do with her when you save the damsel in distress from the vicious Prince?” Maria spat, a note of bitterness seeping into her voice. “Do you intend to make my little sister your whore?” Maria snarled.

Darius felt his hand instinctively clench around the hilt of Maria’s dagger that he’d confiscated and kept on his person for now. He didn’t _care_ if this wench was Madellaine’s sister or not, how _dare_ this woman to scorn his reputation and shame Madellaine.

His blue eyes darkened and burned with the need for revenge. He supposed he wouldn’t find it surprising if, even after the end of all this, Maria still managed to find a way to end up dead. Considering the number of people she seemed to be so skilled at ticking off, he guessed he shouldn’t put it past the girl.

“Your sister is no _whore_. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise,” he snapped. He was growing so furious that he had to force himself to keep his hands clenched so he wouldn’t beat this wench to death within a mere inch of her life where she now sat. “I don’t know if you were aware of this, but your sister’s master, Clopin, that wretched shifty little bastard, almost broke her hand. I had to set it right. I should have _killed_ him a long time ago when I had the chance, that filthy disgusting street rat, before he ever dared to lay a hand on her,” Darius lamented, his chest heaving in rage as a muscle in his jaw had started to spasm.

Maria blinked owlishly at the man sitting across the way and shifted her hands in her lap, wincing as the harsh cold metal of the manacles around her wrists chafed and dug into her skin. No one had ever dared possess the audacity to speak to her like this. His fierce, almost aggressive protectiveness of Madellaine confirmed to her older sister just how much this man loved her.

_Finally_ , she thought, emanating a sigh of relief. _A man is worthy of my little sister_. She swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat. She raised her eyebrows towards the priest and reached up to toss her blonde hair over her shoulders, considering the situation and weighing the severity of his words.

“You love her.” His question was more of a statement of fact rather than an inquiry which she directed towards Darius.

Darius gave a slight incline of his head, staring into the depths of the flames of the fire as though he could not hear her voice, but did not budge. “Yes. Since I first laid eyes on her,” he declared with conviction, surprised to hear himself confess it.

“When was this?” Maria’s tone took on a slightly more subdued and softer tone, which was admittedly surprising to all of them, especially Darius, considering she’d been nothing but hostile. But everyone is someone’s sister, brother, mother, father, Darius reminded himself as he dared to meet the blonde’s gaze.

“At the cathedral,” Darius was quick to recount, sensing the longer they discussed Madellaine, the more Maria softened. It became clear to him that as much of a bitch as this wench was, as heartless as she could be, there was a deep-rooted love entrenched within her for her sister, though why she’d shot Madellaine, he didn’t know, he didn’t want to press the issue quite just yet. “I—I helped her care for Belle while your sister healed my friend’s wife’s wounds. And she…” He paused, unsure whether or not to continue, but decided to forge ahead. “She didn’t laugh at me when I ran headfirst into a pillar, not watching where I walked.”

“You were watching _her_ ,” Maria smirked, the edges of her lips curling upward at the light pink blush of embarrassment snaking its way onto Darius’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. She almost smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders. “My little sister is a beautiful woman, soldier boy. I don’t blame you for being bewitched. And do you intend to make an honest woman of my sister, Barret? Be warned, I’ll gut you like a _pig_ if not.”

At that, Darius almost laughed, rolling his eyes to himself, but decided to humor the wench and dipped into the pocket of his jerkin and procured the gold rings Sister Alice had given him.

He shifted them in his palm, ensuring Maria caught the glint of the gold jewelry cast from the firelight and saw the rings.

For a moment, and perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but Darius could have sworn he saw Maria de Barreau’s hardened expression softened. But only for a fraction of a second. “I have not given my blessing for this union, Barret.” She looked utterly insulted and crinkled her nose in disgust. “As Madellaine and I have no parents, her care falls to _me_.” Darius looked stricken.

He silently kicked himself for forgetting this part and worked quickly to fix his mistake, thinking for sure it would be what Madellaine would want if she were right here by his side.

“Not many have bothered to understand my sister,” Maria said bitterly as Darius felt his jaw clench, mirroring Madellaine’s sister’s rueful misery in a moment of quiet contemplation while LeFou looked on and Gold was watching the whole thing unfold with a rather strange smirk on his face, as though he knew something about this entire situation that Darius did not. It made him feel incredibly uneasy, though he had no time to dwell on it.

“She’s encountered many _fools_ ,” Darius growled, visions of Clopin hurting Madellaine flitting to the front of his mind. He shook his head vehemently to clear it. “It’s not only your sister’s beauty that’s captivating, milady but her heart as well,” he said, his eyes now fixed at a spot on the tree behind Maria’s head, as if Madellaine were standing directly behind her sister, watching him. “Your younger sister is the most beautiful woman in Paris.”

Lifting her head and jutting her chin out in approval, Maria rested back against the log and gave Darius a nod of satisfaction.

“I’ve waited my entire life since I was old enough to understand the ways of the world for someone to see my little sister for what she truly is. To try to give Madellaine the admiration and love that she deserves,” Maria confessed, pained.

“If you love her then why _shoot_ her?” Darius barked hoarsely, unable to quell his burning anger any longer as he seethed, grinding his teeth together as he looked towards Maria.

“To keep her away from _him_. I had thought that she would stay behind at the cathedral and receive care, but I can see I was wrong.” Now, her words were as the wind, faint, hushed, and almost lost on the chilled winter breeze. “I know what the Prince is like, monsieur’s,” she snapped, noticing all three men’s looks of indignation. “Don’t think that I _don’t_. I didn’t want her to fall to the Prince’s attention. She—it would _break_ her, Barret. She isn’t like _me_ ,” Maria muttered, downcasting her eyes and suddenly ashamed to look them all in the eyes. “I _know_ what I am, and I could never be like my sister. She’s always been the one to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” she snorted sardonically. “I don’t want my sister to end up the way I did. Madellaine is a _good_ woman, capable of seeing the good in everyone, even when it isn’t _there_ ,” she growled bitterly. “I don’t want to see her destroyed.”

“She _won’t_ be, dearie, your sister’s soldier boy over here will see to it your sister’s just fine. She’ll marry you, boy, no need to worry about that if that’s what’s got you riled,” piped up Gold from his perch alongside LeFou, a snort escaping through his nose as the man leaned forward and made to fix Maria with a rather pointed stare that neither of them was quite sure to make of it.

“How do you know?” Darius snapped hotly, a surge of fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins as he met Gold’s gaze. He wasn’t quite sure he liked the older man’s habit of always adopting a pensive expression, as though he was far off in a distant time and place thinking about something else entirely.

Gold sanguinely lifted his gaze and fixed Darius with a rather cold stare and pursed his lips into a thin, unmovable line. “Just a hunch I have,” was all he answered before turning away. It quickly became apparent the subject was not open to discussion and Darius would get nothing further out of Gold.

“You love her then?” Maria asked for confirmation, one more time, just to be sure, smiling a little as Darius nodded.

“With everything that I am, though I may not be much at all, milady.” He looked at Madellaine’s sister, and the honesty in which the former priest and soldier spoke had touched her. Darius, ever the intuitive, observant young man that he was, could see it in her eyes, how her blue eyes lit up.

Maria de Barreau reflected silently as she studied him. Darius wondered if he should say something to break the tension, though his tongue felt thick in his mouth and for a moment, Darius quite forgot how his words worked. Luckily, Madellaine’s sister saved him the trouble of responding by speaking first.

“My sister must love you very much,” Maria acknowledged in a somber voice. “Madellaine is the purest and honorable young woman in all of France. She does not take physical relationships lightly. Come to think of it, I don’t think that she has ever been in love before. Our parents did not raise us to feel casual about these types of things. If she gave you her gift, her—her kiss, herself,” she stammered, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as she was trying to make her point, “th—then it’s safe to say she sees you as her future.” Her words sounded a compliment to Darius.

“I—I hope that you are right, milady.” Darius offered a nervous little half-chuckle, picturing Madellaine’s sweet smiling face, suddenly wishing that he’d been fast enough to save her.

He could have used the tempered strength of her hand in his own right now, pouring a little of her courage into himself for the turn their conversation was taking.

“At least I know there is someone in this dark, cruel world who will care for her, love her in the way she deserves,” she murmured solemnly.

Darius raised his eyebrows in alarm. Was it too much to hope for that her sister would give her blessing? Surely, it was, and yet, Darius found himself doing just that as a foreign sense of excitement coupled with a newfound sense of nervousness bubbled within his chest.

“I—I love her,” Darius told Maria nervously, painfully wringing his hands together, not sure what else to tell his love’s older sister, save for the God-honest truth. “Madellaine is my heart. Somehow, she—she saw through the monster that I—I am and to the man that I could be. That I…that I’d like to try to be. For—for her.” He smiled awkwardly, reaching up a hand to scratch at his hair in a nervous fit of agitation, hoping that his words of affirmation would be enough for Maria.

“Not many have bothered to understand my little sister’s heart. You are the first, monsieur,” Maria answered bitterly, taking another hearty swig of water from the wineskin LeFou passed her.

“She—she is the most beautiful woman I know,” he said quietly, smiling tenderly, not even realizing he’d spoken out loud just now until Maria cleared her throat. “She—she deserves so much _better_ than me,” he conceded, gesturing to himself, his deformities, a fiery heat scorching his cheeks as he ducked his head in shame. "How she sees the man behind the _monster_ that I am, the things I’ve done to other people, I don't know..." he mumbled darkly to himself.

There was a beat. A pause. And then— “You believe yourself unworthy of Madellaine’s affections,” Maria acknowledged, stating the painfully obvious. “Truth be told, monsieur, you aren’t. No one is,” her older sister quickly asserted, her voice deadly serious.

A horrible, antagonizing disappointment swept over the fretting dark-haired soldier, as Darius’s shattered heart fell to the pit of his churning stomach as his face turned a sickly green.

Did her sister’s disapproval mean she didn’t approve? Would Maria really be so cruel as to deny him this one pleasure? He thought chillingly to himself. That was a punishment he couldn’t accept and did not at all want. He had to make her see…

Madellaine’s sister noticed the young man’s crestfallen disappointment, but nevertheless, continued speaking.

“I think that you misunderstand my meaning, soldier boy. The fact that you can understand what a gem and rare treasure my sister is, and that you consider yourself woefully inadequate to have been gifted her love, now that I can see it in your eyes how much you two truly love one another, that it’s real love not bought by gold or silver, is exactly why I’m sure you’re the only man in this entire country who is worthy of Madellaine’s affections.”

Maria chuckled as she studied Darius’s stunned expression with an impassive expression. She trusted Madellaine’s judgment, always had, and would until her dying breath. So, she trusted him. Darius blinked, quickly understanding that Maria’s sister was giving her consent for the life ahead of himself that he dreamed of with Madellaine. He wouldn’t let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He drew in a deep breath to steady himself and calmly, albeit rather shakingly, addressed her sister.

“Maria, I—I don’t think it’s come as a shock that I’m deeply in love with your sister,” he affirmed. “She—she’s the only woman that I ever want to love. The only woman whose affections I truly hold in my esteem, milady.”

Darius swallowed down hard, hoping that she would accept their relationship, however unusual it was. “I realize I am far from being worthy of such a beautiful woman as Madellaine, but I swear that I will devote the rest of my life endeavoring to try to be worthy of her.” Darius paused, feeling so uncertain and unsure of himself, hellbent on choosing the right words, conveying the immense love he felt for Madellaine that he did not realize that slick tears were glistening in his blue eyes as he thought of the young blonde woman who held his heart, the young woman whom he wanted to marry. “I—I swear to you that I will never let anyone hurt her. I will cherish her, treasure her love, always. She will only know love and happiness as long as I’m alive.” Darius nervously lifted his gaze and stared intently into Maria’s own, drawing in a breath, anxiously waiting. “With my heart in my grasp, and with all that I am, though I’m not much at all, I ask for, I pray that you will give me the blessing of your sister’s hand in marriage, being that your…your father is not alive for me to ask, so I am asking you in his stead. May I marry your sister?”

His voice cracked and broke with the weight of his appeal as he lowered his head, feeling quite breathless, waiting for Maria’s answer, praying she would say yes. Darius flinched as he heard Maria draw in a long, slow exhale, considering the heartfelt words he’d just spoken.

After a moment that seemed an eternity, she spoke. “Lift your head, monsieur, and look at me, look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you,” came Maria’s voice, clipped and hard, almost sounding irate.

Darius nervously complied, anxious for her answer. The suspense was killing him, and he barely managed to stop himself from bolting from his stool and pacing.

“You’ve made the depths of your love for Madellaine abundantly clear to me. It’s clear your love has no bounds.” She stared across the way a little bit at the man beseeching her for her young sister’s hand in marriage. “I can say without any hesitation on my part, there’s now no one else in Paris with whom I’d let my sister join her life with. There is no other that I consider worthy of Madellaine’s affection and love, save for you.” Maria smiled at the look of disbelief at the former soldier and priest. “ _Yes_ , Barret,” she answered at last. “You’ve my consent to wed my sister. Marry her and be quick about asking her when we get there before I _change_ my _mind_.”

Her tone was relaxed and sure, her blue eyes suddenly twinkling, proud and warm of the happy news. Maria was quick to ascertain that she had not only just given this man everything he could have ever wanted, but she had given Madellaine her heart’s desire as well, although she did not yet know it, but the girl would, yes. Darius erupted into a smile with such brightness, that Maria was taken aback, sure no other held such a smile so bright that could rival all the stars in the sky.

He inclined his head in deference towards Maria and then nearly jumped to his feet with joy at her answer.

Maria stood slowly with him, Darius reaching for her hand, clasping the delicate appendage in his strong, gloved hand. “Thank, mademoiselle. Thank you,” he murmured, his voice practically breaking. He radiated with happiness that Maria thought almost infectious. “Y—you’ve given me the greatest honor in this world.”

“I know,” Maria accepted, just a twinge of sisterly warning in her voice, though it wasn’t enough to stop the small smile from snaking its way to the edges of her lips. “Just don’t wait too long.”

He nodded, staring into the flames as the night dragged on. Before too long, the others settled into an uneasy sleep, but not him. His mind felt like it was reeling, thinking it was a blessing that he had Madellaine’s sister’s permission, but now he could only hope that when he saw Madellaine again, she would say yes.

He could only hope, and it was this thought and visions of Madellaine de Barreau's lovely face that sent him into an eerily peaceful sleep that night.


	66. A Plan of Escape

**CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE**

Belle hadn’t anticipated how demanding cleaning the library the next morning would be. She hated to admit it, but her pregnancy and the added strenuous labor of the work were physically taking their toll on her body.

Madellaine was dusting one of the shelves on the opposite end, and Belle was on the other side on top of the ladder, careful not to jostle it in case it fell, working diligently to reorganize the ‘ **S’** section, though admittedly she continued to get distracted, hoping that Darius would come for them with help.

Maybe Captain Phoebus and his soldiers, she thought wildly, biting down on her bottom lip as she mulled it over, in her mind, though both women were interrupted from their work when the sound of someone coughing to clear their throat caused both women to look up in alarm towards the door.

She felt her face relax into a smile as her husband was leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his broad chest, one leg resting over the other in a relaxed, casual manner. For a moment, as she began to put the book back and climb down the ladder, she thought it was unusual to see him so happy, especially considering they were under the watchful gaze of the cursed Beast-Prince but considering the Prince had spared her husband’s life and had granted Quasi permission to remain by her side, there was an inkling of hope that nestled in Belle’s heart that perhaps one day, and one day soon, the Prince would let them go.

So, engrossed over this one hopeful thought was Belle as she found herself unable to tear her gaze away from her husband, shooting him a small little half-smile, unfortunately, climbing down a particularly tall ladder whilst being distracted and pregnant was admittedly, not the best thing Belle could have chosen to do.

Well aware her husband’s soft smile was distracting her from her work, causing her cheeks to flush high with color, Belle’s foot missed the next rung of the ladder below her and due to her not expecting to have missed it, both of her hands slipped from the edge of the ladder.

She slid down a good six feet, fully expecting to hit the ground when she felt a pair of strong gloved hands wind themselves tightly around her growing belly.

Belle craned her neck upward and squirmed slightly in Quasi’s strong embrace, only to see her husband chuckling in good-natured humor and shaking his head.

“Why is it?” he asked Belle with a little sight as he wrapped his free arm around the swell of her stomach to feel their babe move within her, “that you _always_ seem to fall whenever you’re around me? It’s becoming something of a habit with you. I would rather you fall from a height that I can always be sure to _catch_ you if you keep this behavior up,” Quasi joked.

Belle blushed a bright red crimson as the heat crept to her cheeks and she turned her face away so Notre Dame’s bell ringer wouldn’t see just how flushed and embarrassed she had become. “I—I don’t know, I—I guess I just have a bad habit of falling for you, love,” she stammered, her voice escaping her as a lowly breathy little squeak, suddenly feeling self-conscious and she inwardly groaned the moment Madellaine rushed over to help, though the young blonde noticed a basket her friend brought. Quasi noticed where the girl was looking and smiled.

“One of the caretakers, an older woman—”

“Mrs. Potts,” Belle and Madellaine interjected in unison.

Quasi blinked, looking momentarily startled by the way the girls spoke in tandem just then, though the man quickly shrugged it off and gave his head a curt shake as he brushed his red bangs out of his eyes.

“Yes, her,” he stammered, kneeling into a slight crouch to pick up the basket and unfolded the wrapped cloth. “She—she thought the two of you might be hungry with how hard you’ve been working in the library all throughout this morning, so she…brought lunch and told me to come and eat with you both and keep you company. You both look _exhausted_ , a—and like you could use a break, Belle. Why don’t you sit down?” he finished lamely and held out a rind of bread and cheese and what smelled like a wineskin of ice water.

Belle nodded, almost at the exact moment she heard her stomach give out a low rumble, her hand immediately on her belly. Quasi smiled but said nothing, and Belle did not object as Quasi took her right arm, Madellaine her left and allowed her husband and friend to escort her towards a perch on the windowsill, enough of a place for her to sit and eat while they talked.

As Madellaine unfolded the cloth and cut the bread loaf into sections, handing one each to Belle and Quasi before keeping the last half for herself, doing the same thing with the wedge of Brie cheese, the grim expression on the blonde’s face was almost too much to bear. Quasi had been about to ask after her, if she was feeling well enough when the girl spoke, saving him the trouble.

“Do you think there’s any chance at all we can escape?” Madellaine asked, careful to keep her voice low, feeling thankful that Quasi thought to close the doors to the library before coming in. She didn’t know which of the Beast Prince’s servants listened. “I don’t want to stay here a second longer than we have to if we can help it, Quasimodo. We—we need to get Belle _out_ of here, this is no place for her _or_ your child, Quasi. This place, these people, especially that—that _Beast_ —gives me the _creeps_! He's a _monster_ , keeping us prisoner here!”

Quasi silently nodded his agreement, as did Belle, though the man said nothing. Madellaine let out a sigh and rose slightly from her spot as she slumped against the wall using it as a brace, though before she lowered herself all the way to the carpeted ground of the library’s floor, she caught sight of the estate’s borders, at the thick iron-wrought fence that kept intruders out.

_Or prisoners like us in_ , Belle thought bitterly to herself, sensing the growing look of anger in her friend’s bright blue eyes. Still, her curiosity was getting the better of her.

“Do you think we can?” Belle whispered, not bothering to stamp down the note of hope from lingering in her voice. If the three of them could manage to make it back to the cathedral, they would be _safe_. For all she knew, the walls of this place had eyes and ears.

Madellaine paused in hesitation, biting down on her bottom lip, wanting to take the risk and yet at the same time, not. Belle was pregnant and, in her condition, and in such harsh temperatures of winter, she was in no particular condition to go traipsing through the Wolves’ Woods as it was, but there was no other way.

Madellaine knew having guided Quasimodo most of the way through the Wolves’ Woods that the route she had led him on towards the north around the village of Paris would add a half-day to their journey if the three of them were to attempt to escape this hellish nightmare of a castle. She had given up on the hope that anyone would come looking for them.

It was a delay Madellaine would be willing to accept if it would keep Belle and the babe growing within her safe.

There was a chance they might encounter a few patrols, but if they wanted to escape these grounds, they were going to have to try at some point. Madellaine was growing increasingly worried, thinking that Darius wasn’t coming, and as she chewed absentmindedly on her loaf of bread and shoveled a bite of cheese into her mouth, she could tell that Belle’s body, even hidden underneath a thick heavy winter cape, would still be enough of a striking figure to attract attention should a patrol of guards notice them.

The young blonde knew that the bell ringer’s wife would still be a risk. They could not afford to draw the scrutiny of eager guards. They would have to avoid detection at all costs.

“There are too many patrols for my liking,” Madellaine awkwardly told the pair of them after a moment of hesitation, ripping at her chunk of bread loaf, suddenly not very hungry.

The note of urgent concern was laced throughout her voice.

“You would have to be well hidden with a decent enough cloak, but even that wouldn’t be enough to hide…well…” She paused, wildly gesticulating to Belle’s baby bump. She nodded. Madellaine swallowed down past the lump in her throat. “Even concealed underneath a winter cloak, you would still be…”

Belle lowered her head and rested it in the crook of Quasi’s shoulder, a defeated breath escaping her throat as it left.

“Conspicuous?” she finished her friend’s thoughts for her in a dry and slightly resentful tone. It wouldn’t be the first time her beauty would make it difficult for her to pass unnoticed, but now with her babe’s safety in question, it was more upsetting than all the other times that Belle had felt so prominent, so visible. She knew with a heavy sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Madellaine was right. There was no possible way she could truly conceal herself out in the open to try to escape.

Quasi furrowed his brows and didn’t hesitate to slide his palm under Belle’s chin and lifted her self-conscious, brimming brown eyes marred with hot shame to meet his icy-blue gaze.

He understood how sensitive she was about her natural beauty. She had confessed to him more than once that she wished she had never been born with it, for most, particularly men, her looks were all they fixated on whenever they looked at her. He would never describe it in such problematic terms as that, and he hoped there was something he could say that would put his wife’s mind at ease and make her feel better about herself.

Quasi smiled, hoping to ease the burden Belle carried. “We were _going_ to say that even underneath your cloak, love, you’re obviously a woman, and any man who spots you with a modicum of decency in their heart would surely not turn away a pregnant woman in need of help, but the _Prince_ is a _problem_ ,” he spat, not bothering to hide his note of disgust.

Quasi had not forgotten how the accursed creature had looked at him last night in the corridor when he’d come to Belle’s defense, as though the Beast had wanted nothing more than to dig his own sharp fangs into the column of his throat. He shuddered, giving his head a curt shake to rid his mind of the truly terrifying image, before turning back towards Belle and smiling lovingly at her, moving his gloved hand to rest along the swell of her growing stomach.

“I will keep you safe, Belle. I promise, I won’t let anything else happen to you, love, I think Madellaine is right. We have to try. As long as you stay right by my side, you will be safe,” he murmured softly. “ _Both_ of you,” he added, smiling to himself as he felt their babe give a sharp kick, almost as if to ask, “ _What about me, Papa?_ ” He smiled.

Quasi lifted his gaze to look towards Madellaine, a frown deepening on his face, causing lines upon his forehead and a groove to turn the edges of his lips downward as the young blonde woman with whom Belle was becoming steadfast and perhaps even best friends with, grew troubled yet a second time.

“Even if we _were_ to escape, I don’t think it would be very long before the master of this castle notices our absence. It’s surely only a matter of time before he takes an interest again in your whereabouts, Belle, and realizes that we’ve gone missing.”

Madellaine lifted her chin and looked towards her friends. She did not want to worry Belle or Quasi, but they _did_ need to be careful and, in her mind, realistic about their chances of escape. Belle nodded, understanding the truth in her friend’s concerns and where Madellaine was coming from.

Madellaine and her sister knew what the Prince was like better than she did, knew the way the man’s mind operated, what his methods were.

She reached across and grasped on to Madellaine’s hand, holding the blonde’s hand tightly in her lap. Madellaine blinked owlishly at the unexpected gesture, looking a little bit shocked, but less so than she had expected to be, as Madellaine quickly shot Belle what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but it felt strained.

“How long until we would reach home if we tried?” she asked, dread written all over her rapidly paling features. More than anything, Belle wanted for nothing more than to be back in the comforts of Quasi’s bell tower, to birth their babe in a place that truly felt like their home. This place? This was _not_ her home. She just wanted this to be over.

Madellaine let out a tiny sigh, brushing back a lock of her blonde hair back behind her ears.

“We would have at least four days of travel ahead of us, less if we could find a passing traveler on the road who would be going in the same direction as us,” Madellaine answered Belle. She couldn’t bear to see her friends looking so discouraged and hated being the bearer of grim news.

She scooted closer towards Belle and forced her friend to meet her gaze.

“Belle, you _must_ listen to me, _please_ ,” Madellaine begged, drawing the young brunette’s attention away from her dire thoughts as she exchanged a brief, dark look with her husband. “Think of how far we’ve already come. We’ve made it this far. I think we can go a little bit further if you both are willing to take the risk and trust me. I think I can escort you both back home.” She smiled and let out a nervous little chuckle, trying to turn Belle’s spirits and silently prayed that it was working, then.

“God is on our side,” Quasi affirmed, hoping against all odds that he was right as he worked to assuage Belle’s fears. “He brought you me, didn’t he, love? He brought me back, though I attribute that more to _your_ doing than anything else,” he murmured affectionately, smiling a little at the light pink blush that speckled its way along her cheeks as he reached up and swiped a lock of her hair back behind the contour of her ear where it rightfully belonged, having come loose from her bun.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer was unwilling to allow Belle to believe anything but the certainty that their plan to escape the confines of this wretched, cursed castle was already a victory.

Belle slowly nodded as her mind processed Quasi’s words, his gentle, soothing voice feeling like it was already mending her fractured spirit at being away from their home.

But now, the young woman could not help but feel her faith that everything would work itself out in the end, no matter what happened, had been slightly renewed as she listened to her husband’s impassioned response as it pertained to her despair.

Slowly but surely, a soft, white smile returned to her face as she joined Quasi in his gratitude towards God for all that their creator had seen fit to bless them with, no matter how unusual the nature of their relationship was. What had started out as a marriage of convenience and wanting to save Belle from a life of shame as a pregnant widow, had metamorphosed into this truly amazing thing that they could have only dreamed of?

She slowly slid her hand away from her lap and across Quasi’s right thigh, instinctively reaching for his gloved hand, keeping her other hand nestled protectively over her stomach.

“He gave us our child,” she grinned adoringly as Quasi nodded, leaning his head forward enough so that his forehead rested against hers, feeling content to just bask in Belle’s heat.

“Yes,” he agreed, his hand settling overtop of Belle’s as they felt the baby give another strong kick, both future mother and father chuckling at their babe’s reaction to their nearness. “I cannot believe that the Lord would be so benevolent, well, maybe to me, I can,” Quasi admitted, a pained look flitting across his features as he scrunched his nose in disgust, though as quickly as the brief look of danger had darted along his face, it fled, as he met Belle’s gaze and his hardened expression softened once more. “He would not be so cruel to _you_ , Belle. I know that no matter what, we owe it to ourselves to try, at least,” Quasi quickly comforted Belle again. “We _will_ make it back to Notre Dame. I’m _sure_ of it,” he told her with conviction.

“Your unwavering faith restores my hope, love,” Belle smiled. “You make me feel as if we’re already back home, and we haven’t even tried to leave yet.” She caressed his face reassuringly, though Madellaine spoke up, interrupting the moment. The young blonde was looking a little more encouraged, though still more somber, and not as hopeful.

“Hold onto that, my friend,” Madellaine told her, wincing at the stiffness in her joints as she rolled her neck to crack it as she stood back up, stretching in the hopes of easing her soreness. “I will try to get you both back home, I _promise_ ,” she proclaimed, well aware that her words to Belle were a vow.

One that she hoped she would be able to keep. She looked away to give Belle and Quasi their privacy as she saw the bell ringer lean forward and kiss his wife passionately, both finding their convictions as they clung to each other before parting reluctantly as Madellaine announced they needed to get back to work to avoid detection by the Beast-Prince or his staff.

“What do we need to do?” Belle asked Madellaine as the women reluctantly walked Quasi towards the doors of the library to see Belle’s husband out, whispering in hushed voices amongst themselves that they would meet him later, after dark.

Madellaine cast a worried glance as they lingered in front of the closed library doors, leaning forward, and lowering her voice, ensuring that she was speaking so that only they heard her words meant for Quasi and Belle and them _alone_ , no one else.

Madellaine bit down on her bottom lip as her hardened icy gaze turned towards Quasi before flitting back to Belle, her eyes drifting downward to rest on her friend’s growing belly.

“Find a cloak warm enough for the both of you. I’ll see if I can sneak some food from the kitchens. And,” here, Madellaine glanced towards Belle, pausing to gather her thoughts, her expression grim and somber, though there was a glistening of something else, an emotion flitting through the young blonde’s eyes that she could not quite identify, but before Belle could ponder what it was, it was gone, “Tonight, you should spend some time with the Prince, Belle, though I know it’s the last thing you want to do right now, it will keep his suspicions off of you,” she spat, no warmth in her tone for the monster she knew Maria to be hopelessly in love with, or at least severely infatuated. She sighed upon noticing the dawning look of outrage in Belle’s brown irises. “I know you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, but think of your babe, but do whatever he asks of you. Until tonight. Tonight, we’re _leaving_ ,” she answered, a look of determined resolve and resolution clear upon her pretty features. "There's a tunnel in the dungeons that leads out to the edge of the grounds. Maria showed me a secret passageway once. Meet me there after the castle staff goes to sleep. We're leaving at midnight," Madellaine promised vehemently, her face hardening in resolve.

Madellaine flung open the door with the intent of escorting Quasi back to his and Belle’s prepared chambers, only to come face-to-face with Monsieur Cogsworth. She swallowed.

Upon seeing the sight of the elderly chap who had saved her life from Brutus the other night by dismissing him from the Prince’s service, her heart pounded. Could the man have heard? She could only hope. _Not yet_.

Madellaine reluctantly opened the door and allowed Quasi to begrudgingly leave, with the man accidentally jostling the blonde’s shoulder as he passed.

Without any sort of stiff or formal acknowledgment towards Belle’s husband, he kept a poker face as he delivered a strange message, keeping his cautious, guarded gaze on Belle. No doubt the message was from the master of the castle, and Belle’s suspicions were confirmed the moment the words tumbled unchecked from Monsieur Cogsworth’s lips in a frenzy.

“The Prince asks you to dine with him tonight, Belle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek. Darius and co. are going to be downright livid if they get there and the group isn't there and all that walking was for naught.


	67. Uncomfortable Truths

**CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX**

Belle had never set foot inside a solar so grand, though her eyes squinted as she had to adjust to the dimly lit environment. She was escorted into the room by Monsieur Lumiere, who continued to shoot her pensive stares all throughout the walk down, eyeing her figure in her blue velvet gown, his lips pursed into a thin rigid line as he gave her form a quick once-over and a slight nod of his head in quick approval.

Belle felt a scorching heat creep to her cheeks, though she had no time to comment on the fact that it felt as though every ounce of her appearance were being scrutinized, as though this Prince was so fixated on outward physical beauty, it mattered not what he thought of the interior of a person’s heart, their soul. She tried her absolute hardest not to shiver while she waited nervously with gritted teeth for the arrogant master of the castle to arrive.

She wanted this dinner to be over and done with as quickly as possible, for her to receive whatever scathing, cutting remarks the Beast-Prince wished to sling at her and agree to meet Madellaine and Quasi in the dungeons at her earliest opportunity that she could manage to slip away from the Beast.

Lumiere escorted her into the solar to find herself alone, and the only words he would speak to her was a set of instructions to wait for the master to arrive. A meal had been set on the table, but it failed to arouse Belle’s appetite. As it so happened, she felt quite nauseous and sick to her stomach.

Her first instinct was to blame it on her pregnancy, though she knew the babe growing inside her had little to do with it and every ounce to do with the fact she was expected to spend an evening in the Beast’s company, without her husband.

Almost no sooner had Belle touched the edges of the chair she stood behind, grazing the tips of the ornate piece of furniture with the pads of her fingers than the Beast’s towering, hulking form appeared in the doorway, eyeing Belle silently.

Belle swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat and ever mindful of her feigned courtesies, inclined her head, keeping her fingers folded in front of her middle. She did not curtsy, she would not give this monster the satisfaction of that much, but she could at least offer a nod of acknowledgment.

Belle nervously straightened her gait as she awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited for the Beast-Prince to speak. “ _Beast_ ,” she answered simply, her voice curt and clipped, no hint of warmth or kindness in her tone at all. Yet another thing she would not give the monster the privilege of hearing. She was not about to be kind to this cretin.

The Beast merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of Belle's presence in his private solar and stalked his way past her from his perch of standing in the doorway to sit after serving himself a flagon of what smelled like spiced wine that made Belle’s nostrils flare in agitation, her senses heightened, thanks to her pregnancy. Her stomach lurched though she swallowed down past the bile rising in her throat. He motioned with a wave of his paw for Belle to occupy the chair across from him and the place where her meal sat idle.

Belle could only comply, though she wanted nothing more than to turn on the heels of her boots and flee the Beast.

“How fares the prettiest belle in all of Paris?” the Beast drawled in a deep baritone that set the fine hairs on the back of her neck upright. “I trust that everything is to your _liking_ here, mademoiselle,” he said, sensing the change in Belle’s demeanor as she stiffly sat, rather rigidly in her chair with gritted teeth.

She couldn’t be sure, though the Beast was looking as though he hoped that he had not mistakenly offended Belle.

His tone was cold and flat, conveying none of whatever emotions, if any at all, were flitting through the cursed Prince’s mind. Belle pondered over this, wracking her brain for something to say while she chewed on the wall of her mouth.

It occurred to her a fraction of a second too late that Belle was not in the mood for company tonight, particularly not in the presence of this monster, and she wished for nothing more than to meet her husband and Madellaine and flee here.

“I am fine, milord.” Here, she offered another slight dip of her head. She glanced around the desolate, dimly lit solar. “It is beautiful here,” she tried to reassure him, though Belle was quite confident the Beast-Prince knew that she was quite literally lying through her teeth as she sat across the way from the Beast.

Swallowing down hard past the lump in her throat, she was also quick to recognize that it was, in fact, the Prince’s finest doctors and physicians who had mended her husband’s wounds and had apparently treated her while she had remained unconscious, saving the life of her babe by stemming the bleeding after her body had become too taxed from dealing with Madellaine’s older sister on the front steps of the cathedral.

“I…I lack the words to thank you for…for treating my husband’s wounds, and my own, sir,” Belle began humbly, feeling more and more awkward the longer she remained here.

The Beast merely studied the young brunette bell ringer’s wife over the rim of his goblet and waved a claw in the air, as if to dismiss her begrudging gratitude with a dismissive wave then. She bristled. Was this Beast _really_ so arrogant that he would not even accept her fate? What did he _want_ from her?

“There is no need,” the Beast asserted quite coldly. “I have been hearing whispers, young mademoiselle, from members of my staff, that upon your…being escorted here, you _seclude_ yourself, despite having the run of the castle at your whims and mercy,” the Prince spoke in a monotonous, droll tone without even giving so much as a thought on hearing her thanks. Belle could not even begin to fathom or put a finger on how such a simple, yet authoritative means of speaking could cause the fine hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright, and suddenly, she wished that Quasimodo were here by her side.

Even when he had been…human, Belle shuddered at the very thought, the man never failed to make her cringe, but seeing him up close and personal in this monstrous form, this witch’s curse, and may it be a plague on the monster’s life for the rest of his miserable and desolate existence, he held an air of monstrosity about his aura that was almost carefully hidden. He possessed the ability to unshackle even the most guarded person’s well-kept secrets within only a second of talking.

Belle was quick to decide that she abhorred it and wished to leave. She knew she owed the Beast an answer while he waited. “Forgive me, milord,” Belle managed to utter at last, “I—I wasn’t feeling well.” As if to emphasize her point, she shook the overly long flared tow sleeves of her gown and rested her hands on her swelling baby bump. “I am tired most days.”

She bit down on her bottom lip in a slight pout as she could see her confession of just how taxing her pregnancy was for her had little to no effect on the Prince, for the Beast said nothing. He was eyeing her with those icy-blue irises of his narrowed in quiet contemplation as he drank from his wine goblet. He was eyeing Belle as though she were a disappointment. Like he knew something of her she didn’t.

It vexed her, to say the least, and as a consequence, Belle was caught off guard, more than a little flustered, and didn’t know how to react. “I am sorry,” Belle apologized at last.

“For what?” the Beast immediately replied, and it should be noted that the creature did not sound angry, but curious.

Belle swallowed thickly, her tongue suddenly feeling like clay in her mouth as she lowered her lashes, not wanting to look into those deep pools of soulless blue and see her reflection.

“I know that I should have acted more properly. I am a guest in your home, monsieur. I have not treated you well.”

He snorted, repressing the urge to roll his eyes as he almost slammed his goblet down on the surface of the table, the loud noise reverberating in the otherwise silent room as the metal of his cup came into contact with the wood, making Belle flinch and shirk away in both surprise and fear at the outburst.

“Spare me the homilies, Dupont, I can smell a fraud a mile away. You are free to speak your mind in my presence, pretty little belle. Speak your _true_ intents, what you really think of me. I will not take it against you. You can be _honest_ , girl.”

Belle could only blink owlishly at the Beast, watching in a stunned stupor as he took a spare flagon, placed in front of her place setting, and filled it to the brim with ice water. She was grateful, at least, that the servants must have conveyed to the Beast the nature of her pregnancy and not to allow her wine.

Belle looked away, sick of the thought of being here. "Intents?" she asked, not quite understanding.

More than anything else, she just wanted to be home, back in the bell tower, with Quasi, where she belonged, and in another few months, they would meet their baby. She was pulled from her fantastical longings when again, the Beast’s baritone voice shattered the silent and tense atmosphere. She looked at him.

“It truly _bothers_ me, mademoiselle, the low opinion that you refute yourself. Were that you could see yourself as I do.”

She felt her almond-shaped dark brown eyes widen in shock and abject horror. She tried to process the Beast Prince’s words deep within herself but was unable to quell back the fear.

Though before Belle could ask the monster what he meant by his words, he spoke, and this time, his voice was much softer, more subdued than before. “I suppose I ought to have guessed a woman of repute such as yourself would not be completely comfortable here.”

His tone was bitter, giving Belle the impression that the creature was admonishing himself for it.

She gave him a curious look, wondering when he would get to the point so they could arrive at the heart of whatever conversation it was that the Beast wished to share with Belle.

Belle raised her eyebrows in alarm and surprise. Surely, it was too much to hope that the Prince had sensed she was unhappy here, and that he’d had a change of heart and was going to let them leave, and there’d be no need to escape this place? It was almost too much to hope for, and yet, that was exactly what Belle found herself hoping the Beast would say.

“It sickens me, milady, to think what Gaston put you through,” the Beast spat his words more than spoke them through gritted teeth, causing Belle to look up in surprise at him.

Whatever she had been expecting the master of the castle to say, this was…admittedly not it. She swallowed down hard.

“He was your…your friend once, Your Highness, yes?” she questioned, well aware that she was probably overstepping several mental and moral boundaries just by asking after the nature of the Prince’s relationship with her deceased first husband. She almost wanted to take back her query, but she could tell by the way the Beast’s blue eyes narrowed, it was too late. “You are aware of what he did to me?” she asked coldly, speaking of course, not only to him assaulting her but murdering her father in cold-blood with his own hound as well.

“ _Believe_ me,” he growled, his voice almost bitter, which surprised Belle as he paused to take a long, slow swallow of wine. “If your _wretch_ of a husband hadn’t beaten him to death with his own hands then I would have shoved my dagger through Dupont’s vicious bastard heart myself, princess.” His eyes went glassy and distant, imagining himself completing the deed of killing him. “There has been no love lost between Gaston and me, mademoiselle,” he admitted. “I don’t mourn him. I celebrated, as it so happens when I heard the bastard had died,” he admitted, sounding surprised to hear himself say it. He let out a haggard sigh and continued. “Were that I wish I was the _monster_ you think me to be, darling, but even I do not stoop _that_ low around women,” he growled, his voice turning low and dangerously quiet. She’d almost preferred if he had shouted.

Belle felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. Had he forgotten what he had tried to do to her in the courtyard? She had wanted Gaston harmed for what he’d taken from her that night, and all the nights before that, and her blood froze completely over when she heard the Beast Prince’s voice went even quieter. “Your wretch _loves_ you.”

He nodded at the fact he had just spouted, causing Belle’s eyes to widen as she met his gaze.

The Beast read the sorrowful expression on the young beauty’s face and felt a strange desire to reassure the mademoiselle, and he did not know where his sudden shift in countenance was coming from, nor did he know what entirely to make of this. “You have succeeded in giving that monster all that he could never have achieved on his own,” he growled, his tone now sounding like he carried something of begrudging respect for what Belle had done, by finding love in Notre Dame’s bell ringer.

“Love, compassion, strength, honor, caring. He knows the love of a good woman. He will soon have a son, an heir, to wear your family name proudly. The wretch has a _family_ …” It did not escape Belle’s attentiveness that the Beast’s words were bitter, and spat more than spoken, as though he resented speaking of all the bell ringer had that the Prince lacked. She caught her breath through the sobs that threatened to stick at the back of her throat as she fought for composure.

Her walls around her heart that she had built up around herself the moment she discovered she and Quasi were to remain here, were starting to crumble and the Beast could _see_ it.

“Why are you keeping us here?” Belle asked with scorn in her voice as she murmured her words, finding it increasingly difficult to look the Beast-Prince in his eyes, for fear of the contempt and hatred for her that she would find within them.

“Because it pleases me to look at you, Belle, that’s _why_ ,” he growled, and there was a note of finality in his baritone voice that warned Belle not to press the matter further with him now.

“I will _never_ love you,” Belle sneered, rising from her chair, tasting bile at the back of her throat. “You may keep me here as a prisoner for the rest of my natural days if you so wish it, but what you and I would share would never be love, Beast. You only want power, power over me, and my submission. My entire life if I stay here will revolve around you, and your control of me if you were to take me as a consort, or even as your wife.”

She shuddered at the thought, fighting against the urge to vomit all over the surface of his polished mahogany desk as her face rapidly paled and turned an interesting shade of light green.

“You shall _never_ hold any sort of power over me, _Beast_ ,” she vowed to the monster staring incredulously across the table at her as she rose to her full height. “And I will do what I can to ensure that you will never hurt any of the ones in my life that I love,” she spoke her declarations to Heaven, hoping God heard.

“Home to you is everything, princess, is it not? Despite having to tolerate a rabid _dog_ like Gaston for a husband and now…the boy?” he growled, still maintaining his listlessness.

Belle felt something dark snap within her and something ugly rise within herself as her temper surged to new levels, seeping as a horrible warmth in the pit of her stomach that only further intensified the waves of nausea that wracked her belly.

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it happening as she carefully retreated towards the door, though never once daring to turn her back on the Beast-Prince.

“As far as I recall, Your Highness, I was never given the chance to choose between the nobleman that you seem to think that I deserve and a rabid beast like we all know Gaston was,” Belle shot back angrily, feeling more than a little astonished on where she had acquired such a bold gut to speak straightforwardly. She attributed it to Madellaine’s personality.

The young blonde thief’s ways were slowly but surely rubbing off on Belle. She assumed this sudden outspokenness towards statements and behaviors she disagreed with was one.

She swallowed as the Beast narrowed his icy eyes, though she swore for a fraction of a second, there was a glint in his almost colorless eyes that affected her and wracked her in fear.

“I will not dispute you on that, Belle. You did not have a choice. Gaston did not make me aware of his marriage to the prettiest girl in all of France until months into your union. And as for your bastard of a wretch, well…” he paused and sneered. “Considering your pregnancy and where you were in life, it seemed the boy was the only choice. But now he _isn’t_ , Belle.”

She felt her face drain of colors as she realized the implications of what the Beast-Prince was suggesting to her.

Belle gritted her teeth behind her straight, pursed lips. This Prince standing in front of her seemed in a mood to convince her to try to leave Quasi behind, to forget the man.

“Would you have _really_ thought that I would have _let_ you marry Gaston, mademoiselle, had I been made _aware_ of the match in the first place?” the Beast growled, a semblance of anger seeping its way unbidden to the surface of his baritone voice as his voice was rough and coarse as he snarled at her.

The Beast’s words seared Belle better than the flaming tip of an arrow shot by a master archer ever could, causing her to stumble backward in alarm. Her fingertips went numb, and her mouth went dry, and her tongue felt heavy, like dried old clay.

And all the while, the cursed Prince had not shown to her a single shred of embarrassment at his own harsh, cold honesty.

The air around Belle in the solar felt cramped, she reeled backward on the balls of her heels.

“E—excuse me, milord, I—I h—have to go, I—I think that I need some air,” she murmured under her breath and forgetting proper edict in front of the Prince of these lands, cursed Beast or not, she left the man’s solar in haste, her mind twisted and warped by fear of the way the Beast’s hardened blue eyes followed her to the doorway.

Her stomach decided that she could go no further as it tightened, causing Belle to shoot out an arm to brace against the wall as watery morsels hurled their way from her throat as she threw up, spattering the white ornate marble floor with sick.

She felt like she had been retching a week’s worth of food, and she shakily wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and did not bother to look behind her to see if _he_ watched. Belle fled into the open, remembering only two from earlier who could offer her the salvation and freedom she craved, and her mind was made up. She was meeting the others right now.

They couldn’t wait until midnight, they needed to _go_.

Belle hastily picked up the skirts of her gown and ran, striding over the ornate spiral staircase and the lengths of the hallways until she reached the door to the chambers that she knew belonged to her friend. “Madellaine? **MADELLAINE**!”

Her rapping on the doors quickly manifested into urgent bangs of panic, clawing on the wood until her fingernails bled.

“Belle? Love?” Her husband’s concerned, quiet, tenor-like tones caused her to turn on the heels of her boots, whose confusion turned into shock at the sight of his wife’s posture. The sweat beading along her clammy brow, the skin of which was pulled taut in tension, tears streaming down her face. “God, what happ—” he started to ask, though Belle did not give Quasi a chance as she practically flung herself at him.

“Help me! Take us _away_ from here, Quasi, _please_!” Belle shook at Quasimodo’s broad shoulders before almost falling to her knees as her strength quickly gave out, her body sapped.

The door to Madellaine’s quarters creaked open as Quasi reached up a gloved hand to tuck a stray strand back behind Belle’s ears. She must have looked terrible, judging by the way the bell ringer and the blonde thief of Clopin’s were eyeing her.

Madellaine furrowed her thin blonde brows into a frown.

“Are you… all right? Do you need anything? Water? Ambrosia? Herbs to settle your stomach? Come in, quick,” Madellaine urged, opening the door wider and stepping back to allow Quasi to usher his nearly hysterical wife into the bedroom.

Madellaine became frantic at the sight of her new dear friend in such a state of hysterics, catching her breath and looking around to see no one lingering in the halls before shutting the door behind her, perhaps louder than the blonde would have liked, for she flinched at how it rattled in its hinges.

Belle’s friend wasted no time in plucking objects from various chests of drawers and wardrobes, stuffing as much as she possibly could into a small drawstring linen sack she could carry on her back. A couple of gloves, stale bread not quite moldy yet leftover from breakfast that would keep another day or two, a spare cape and a change of clothing, a rind of the Brie cheese that Madellaine was quickly learning Belle, in her pregnancy, was developing quite the fondness for. That and grapes.

“How do we leave?” Belle’s voice cracked and broke as she blinked back an onset of salty liquid, her eyes darting every which way to the left and right like she was nothing more than cornered prey that expected to see the Beast lunge at her now.

“Let _me_ worry about that, my friend,” Madellaine reassured her as she chucked her a thick black woolen cape with a fur-lined hood, hoping it would have to do to hide her pregnancy. But before Belle could take it from Madellaine, a heralding blast of what sounded like a horn wafted in through the open window that Madellaine had let in for fresh cool air upon seeing how green and clammy Belle’s ashen face was.

It was the music of war. Someone or other’s army had come. Belle glided by the open windows almost effortlessly in haste to see what was going on. Inhaling deeply as the cool air filled her lungs, craning her neck down to get a better look, feeling Quasi’s nudge beside her, she wasn’t able to stifle a low moan at the sight of black shrouded figures in thick robes stretched out like grass over the rolling hills of the Prince’s estate.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach. There easily had to be a couple thousand strong, hundreds on horseback, bearing a family sigil she despised, one that she hoped she would never have to see again.

The armor of the soldiers bore the coat of arms of the Dupont family crest, a hunter stalking its prey, the head of a lion held high and proud and decapitated by a strong man. Gaston’s family crest. She didn’t know _what_ had happened, though she could only surmise with a sickening feeling of dread that crept up and down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold that Gaston’s family, what was left of it, had heard of her husband’s death, and had only assumed the Prince was to blame for his demise.

Another blast from the horn in the distance sounded, shrill and loud, longer this time, and almost sounded desperate. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut at the sounds of swords being drawn from their sheaths, marking the tension that had begun to infiltrate the castle. Just outside of Madellaine’s chambers, they could hear the other servants in a mad scramble.

The castle was being invaded. A cold calloused and gloved hand tugged on the sleeve of her gown. Quasi’s voice was a mix of trepidation, caution, and fear.

“Come, love. We have to _go_. We cannot stay here,” Quasi urged, fear in his tone.

Belle nodded, fastening the clasp of her fur-lined cape around her neck, and pulling the overly large hood up over her face to conceal her features, grateful the robe hid most of her pregnancy. It was going to have to be enough, for now, she knew.

A vent of adrenaline surged through her veins and pushed her towards the doorway as she grasped tightly onto her husband’s hand, not willing to let him go as she allowed herself to be led down the corridor by Madellaine and Quasi, away from the threat of the impending siege threatening to take the castle.


	68. His Parting Gift

**CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN**

Darius swore under his breath the moment he heard the familiar sound of cavalry approaching near the edge of the damned Wolves’ Woods as the unmistakable sight of the Prince’s castle came into view, its towering parapets and buttresses giving it an intimidating appearance, almost Gothic.

He caught LeFou and Gold staring at him out of the corner of his peripherals as he crept closer towards the edge of the Wolves’ Woods property line for a closer look at what they were dealing with. “No, not _this_ ,” he moaned, swearing under his breath, his heart leaping up into his throat as he caught sight of Belle’s deceased husband’s family crest on a few of the sigils on the suits of armor of unsuspecting foot soldiers as they passed by, unaware they were being watched as they marched towards the castle’s iron-wrought gates. LeFou looked towards Darius with trepidation. His blood ran cold at the thought of encountering any one of these soldiers who looked like they could run him through with just one swift kick of their boot.

“They’re going to strike the northeast side where it’s already vulnerable,” Gold predicted with conviction, sounding sure of himself and rather smug of it, too. Darius looked up in alarm, his temper and trepidation swelling within the pit of his slender chest.

A cold dread seeped its way unbidden to the surface, bile rising in his throat at the thought of Madellaine and Belle and Quasi somewhere in the castle, but mostly Madellaine.

Maria turned and looked at her sister’s soon-to-be-fiancé if her sister would take this man, and she knew that she would, to have a man like this soldier boy who’d seemingly go to the ends of the earth and back if that’s what it took to get Madellaine back, but it wasn’t enough for her to fight against the lump in her throat and the violent quivering of her bottom lip.

She had not exactly anticipated… _this_.

“But what are they _waiting_ for?” Maria breathed, watching the unfamiliar soldiers settle in wait at the front of the stronghold of the gates, waiting. Maria half expected Darius to answer her with some quip or another showcasing his expertise in battle, but to her surprise, it was Monsieur Gold who spoke up in a subdued, somber tone.

“Their commander,” Gold answered Maria in his expert opinion, though he startled upon hearing Darius alongside him let out a low, frustrated growl from deep within the confines of his chest. Gold gave a flinch at the harsh noise and fell silent.

“We’re _not_ waiting, I didn’t walk all this way just to lose the girls and Quasi now. We can’t wait any longer,” Darius growled angrily, clenching his teeth together, almost violently snatching the length of chains out of LeFou’s shaking grasp and gave a harsh tug forward, eliciting a startled cry from Maria in the process as she let out a terrified squeak and stumbled forward, almost falling into the man’s slender chest at the unexpected violence of the movement, but he shrugged her off.

Darius paid Maria no mind as he turned towards Gold and LeFou. “You two wait here. I’ll be back. If I’m not back by the time the moon’s behind the clouds, head back to the church.” He turned towards Maria and narrowed his gaze. “ _You_ , wench,” he growled, no semblance of warmth in his tone. “You’re coming along with me. We’re going to strike a _deal_.”

“ _What_ deal?” Gold shot back immediately, sounding thoroughly offended at the fact Darius had told no one this was the former priest and soldier’s plan all along, what to do with her. “If anyone’s going to strike a deal, Barret, it’s _me_. I know you’ve little reason to trust me, but I’m something of a good businessman back in the region where I come. Let _me_ do this.”

Maria shot Gold and LeFou a pleading look, terror pricking at her heartstrings, not liking the darkening look in Barret’s eyes, though she knew as she looked towards the other two men, that she would get no help from either one of them.

She was not at all sure she liked the growing look of anger in Darius Barret’s darkening, cerulean pale blue eyes as he stalked forward with Maria in tow trailing close behind him, having no choice as she was essentially rendered the man’s captive. He paused only once, stopping at the edge of the trees.

LeFou swallowed down nervously past the lump in his throat, not at all convinced that Darius was going to do anything good. Not that he cared one way or another what happened to Maria, but if there was a way to involve getting Belle away from this monster’s clutches, then he’d prefer to do it without shedding blood.

“Monsieur Barret,” LeFou chuckled in a questioning manner, albeit rather nervously with raised eyebrows. Darius jumped in response to being addressed so formally, the length of Maria’s manacles that bound her wrists together held firmly in his hand as he looked at LeFou as though he’d never quite seen anyone quite like him before.

LeFou took a cautious half-step forward, hardly aware of a figure nudging to stand beside him. _Gold_ , he thought and stiffened by way of response. There was something of the man with the slight lilt to his Scottish accent that unnerved LeFou.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it did, and the sooner this man, this Gold character, left them to their business, then the better off he and Barret would be, LeFou was certain.

“You’re to give Maria up?” he questioned, jerking his head towards Maria, wanting to know the man’s intentions.

Darius nodded, his facial expression hardened as a shadow of something dark flitted across his face, his blue eyes narrowing until they were mere slits.

“Our land’s Prince is going to give me Madellaine, Belle, and her husband, in exchange for his wench’s wretched and miserable _life_ ,” he spat, no small measure of disgust laced through his tone, causing the young blonde woman to groan in pain as the harsh cold metal of her manacles dug into the delicate flesh of her wrist as Darius tugged on her restraints rather violently in order to pull her forward. “He’ll get his wench back one way or another,” he growled, a murderous look of rage in his darkening blue eyes.

Without so much as another word, Darius gave a sharp incline of his head towards Gold and LeFou and turned on the heels of his boots, ignoring the startled cry of pain elicited from Maria as he tugged her forward and began to make his way out of the Wolves’ Woods and through the line of Dupont soldiers.

“ _Not_ _one_ _word_ ,” he growled to Maria, leaning in, and thrusting his face so close to hers that their noses touched. “If you cry out or so much as utter one syllable, wench, I’ll cut out your tongue and _leave_ you at the front gates to bleed to death.”

Maria rolled her eyes, unfazed by Darius’s threats. “I hope you don’t plan to _kiss_ my _sister_ with that trash mouth,” she snapped angrily by way of retort, though said nothing further and held out her bound hands in front of her, resigning herself that this was to be her fate, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

If it meant that her sister would be safe, then so be it.

“Lead the way then, soldier boy,” she growled through gritted teeth. “I’m right behind you…” Maria snarled viciously.

LeFou briefly wondered if he would know any of the men in Gaston’s family’s army, and who had brought them all here. LeFou exchanged an uneasy look with Monsieur Gold, whose expression remained impassive, a perfect mask of calm neutrality, though LeFou swore the man looked bothered by it.

Gold merely stared with a blank, unreadable expression after Darius’s fading silhouette as the tall, towering former priest of Notre Dame barreled and shoved his way towards the front line of soldiers gathered near the front of the imposing gates.

“Come on then, lad,” Gold growled darkly under his breath, clapping LeFou on the back and steering him towards the pathway that Darius and Maria had just walked. “We’re not going to want to _miss_ this, kid. Trust me, you’ll want to see it.”

LeFou stifled a pitiful little whimper building in his broad chest as he reluctantly allowed Monsieur Gold to steer him straight through the path of Dupont foot soldiers and sellswords. It should be noted that as Gold led the way, LeFou began to feel increasingly nervous that discourse would break out before too long, considering the amount of tension at the gates.

It didn’t take the men long to catch up to Darius, who’d wormed his way to the front of the crowd of men amassed behind him, all of whom, LeFou noticed with no small amount of measure of awe, had ducked their heads in respect to Darius.

 _Who IS he?!?_ LeFou couldn’t help but wonder to himself. A priest by nature, a calm man, gentle, and quiet, but underneath the surface, LeFou had seen it in the man’s glacier blue eyes. He was deadly and dangerous, not to be trifled with.

As Gold and LeFou moved to stand directly behind Darius and Maria, LeFou fell silent and strained his ears to listen to whatever snippets of conversation he could manage to pick up. His heart sank as he recognized Gaston’s older brother, the man who _would_ have been Belle’s husband had Gaston not married Belle when he had, and just as handsome and a bastard.

“You win every time you fight,” Gaston’s brother, Laurent, was saying. “Why have you come? What prize has our land’s Prince stolen from you, Barret?” Laurent barked hoarsely.

A muscle in Darius’s jaw twitched at hearing Laurent Dupont’s rough tones. “A woman,” he answered simply, not wanting to divulge Madellaine’s name to the man in front of him, feeling a hot fire seed of jealousy and anger welling in his chest at the thought of Maria’s sister with another man _but_ him.

“Mmm. I suspect she’s no match for my brother’s Belle, Barret,” Laurent scoffed and clicked his tongue. “What’s wrong with the one here?” he growled, his dark eyes raking over Maria’s petite but dirtied form with an interesting-looking glare.

Maria pursed her lips and shot the soldier a truly withering look that said she didn’t care for such a comparison.

“She’s the sister,” Darius said grimly, earning Gaston’s brother’s sarcastic laughter as the man threw his head back.

“Of course, she is. Well, let’s hurry the bloody hell up and get this over with, Barret. I want to go home to my own bed. It’s bloody freezing out here. My men and I are in a _mood_.”

Gaston’s brother turned back towards the front, though he was almost immediately interrupted by a young squire, who nervously held out a piece of parchment in his hand, his eyes wide and brimming with fear as the boy looked at Darius.

“What is it? Don’t look at _him_ , boy, keep your eyes on me, kid!” Laurent growled as he outstretched his hand and swiped the piece of parchment from his squire. “ _Speak_ , boy!”

“Milord, the—the scouts found this raven. My—my reading isn’t polished, b—but I hope it doesn’t impede my ability to understand,” the poor flustered squire stammered nervously, his hair windswept, his cheeks red from the cold.

Laurent shot his squire a slightly admonishing look and unfurled the folded parchment paper, its wax seal long broken.

As Gaston’s brother read the words, his face hardened like wrought iron as he held out the letter with shaking hands.

He silently handed the parchment out to Darius, much to the squire’s surprise. “This letter is addressed to _you_ , monsieur. You _know_ anything of this…?” he demanded in a clipped tone.

Darius took the letter between gloved, shaking fingers. The last time he’d read a letter, his entire world came crashing.

As his eyes made a quick scan of the contents of the letter, he felt the one-sentence pierce his heart the most, winded around his heart and piercing it like that of fine barbed wire, pulling at the feeble quivering muscle within his chest until he felt that every pulsing vein within him was going to implode.

His blue eyes glossed over and became glassy, and Darius swallowed down past a lump in his throat. His fingers twitched as he fought against the urge to draw his sword from his sheath and decapitate every last Dupont sworn soldier that was near him.

“No…he—he wouldn’t _do_ that to her, monsieur…she couldn’t _possibly_ …” he managed to gasp out, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, yes she _would_ ,” came the familiar smooth and mocking voice of Maria de Barreau, who had to lean forward and up on her tiptoes in order to try to read the letter’s contents.

Her thin lips were pursed into a rigid line, and she remained still and stoic. She never raised her eyes at Darius.

“You _lie_.” He spat the words more than spoke them, and there was gravel in Darius’s voice that made even him flinch.

This time, Maria looked up at him with the beginnings of a taunting smile, though the triumphant smirk on her otherwise pretty features quickly disappeared.

“Why would I _lie_ to you when you _literally_ hold my _life_ in your hands, monsieur?” she challenged. As if to emphasize her point, she raised her shackled hands in front of her and gave the chains a loud, rattling clank.

Darius’s head whiplashed sharply upward to regard the Prince’s castle with no small measure of disdain brimming in his blue eyes. “ _Come_ ,” he growled, surprised at how rough and coarse his voice sounded, grating, almost like that of sandpaper.

He swiveled his head around to peer at Gold and LeFou over his shoulder. “ _Stay_ ,” he snarled in his almost wolfish tone.

Gold and LeFou were not about to argue with him in his agitated state. Both men quickly inclined their heads in a form of silent submission and agreement, saying that they would do as Darius commanded and wait here at the edges of the forest. Darius gave a harsh tug of Maria’s chains and stalked forward towards the gate, ensuring his expression remained neutral.

The two of them had almost reached the front, and Darius was pleased to see the master of the castle approaching, though his heart sank to the pit of his stomach as he quickly realized that their prince of these lands was an accursed beast.

In every literal sense of the word, towering over Darius and any other normal human man, its horns protruding from its head in a tangle of twists and turns, stretching towards the sky.

And yet, despite its raised hackles and truly ravenous expression of its own, what remained of its humanity was its icy-blue eyes. But before Darius could get a better look at the wretch and demand to know where Madellaine was, and Belle and their cathedral’s bell ringer, Maria’s soft, shy, and quiet voice spoke up from behind, her tone sounding more subdued. Any previous trace of jest and mocking was now gone.

“I don’t want you to worry about me, monsieur,” Maria told Darius softly, without turning to look at him as he gave another tug of her manacles, forcing her to walk in tandem alongside him. Instantly, Madellaine’s sister could feel his blue eyes burning a hole in the side of her skull. She did not like it.

Maria swallowed down hard, able to feel the animosity of the priest and soldier’s stare as the man swiveled his head to look at her. She felt as though she needed to ensure she wouldn’t be a distraction to Darius Barret’s safety. For his sake.

“I don’t want you to fight this battle to protect me.” Maria shuddered at the consequences of the infamous soldier’s actions being drawn away from the fighting could mean for him. She blew out a breath that escaped her lips as a cold puff of air before continuing. “I want you to fight to stay _alive_ , Barret. For my _sister_. Don’t worry about me,” she murmured, her tone soft.

“I’m not worried about _you_ , you’re with _me_ , wench,” Darius barked with determination and just a hint of smugness in his tone. “Madellaine cares for you. As long as _I’m_ present, no harm will come to you. I think your sister would _kill_ me if I let anything happen to you, Barreau,” Darius snorted sardonically.

“ _Please_.” Maria halted in her steps and dug the heels of her boots firmly into the snow, refusing to go a step further towards where the Prince stood eerily calmly waiting for them. She wasn’t sure if she should be nervous about that fact or not. She turned around to face him, wanting to say her piece and speak her mind before she did not get a chance to say it again. “You _know_ I can do this. You’ve seen me fight, monsieur.”

Darius merely grunted wordlessly as the awful images of Maria’s skill with a bow and arrow flitted to the front of his mind. He begrudgingly had to admit his love’s sister was right in that regard. The wench knew how to use a weapon.

“I know,” he growled, disgruntled. “You fight almost as well as a man. _Almost_ ,” he added as an afterthought, shrugging.

Maria furrowed her thin brows into a frown, though her sudden somber seriousness chilled Darius’s blood to ice in his veins, that the sudden coldness he felt had nothing to do with the winter breeze that wafted through the air, blowing his dark hair off his head at that exact moment as she looked at Darius.

“Listen to me,” she implored, just a faint hint of desperation in her voice now. “If this is to be my end, then I want you to know that I hope you give my sister the love and praise that we _both_ know she deserves. Because if I _die_ here today and I learn that you don’t give Lena everything she deserves, then I’m coming back to _haunt_ you and dragging you down to the seven layers of hell myself.” Maria’s icy glower bore deep into Darius’s very soul as she refused to revert her gaze first.

For just a fraction of a second, Barreau’s concern for the well-being of her younger sister took Darius’s breath away. _The bitch does have a heart, after all_ , he thought. However, for Madellaine’s sake if nothing else when he found her, he could not allow her older sister to lose her confidence and let her guard down, to think that whatever happened next would be her end, either of them.

“I _promise_ , we’ll both see Madellaine soon,” he solemnly vowed, the slight smile tugging the edges of his lips upward, though the strained smile didn’t meet his sapphire eyes.

He said nothing further, wanting his promise of hope to be the last thing the older Barreau girl focused on as he gave another tug of her chains, slightly less violent this time, and propelled the wench forward towards where the cursed Prince, now more a Beast than a man, stood waiting for him.

The sworn soldiers who’d pledged their fealty to Gaston’s family parted, though their gloved hands lingered on the hilts of their swords, while the men waited with bated breath and chattering teeth, as Darius stalked his way down to the front of the gates, while Darius mumbled a half-hearted prayer to God and His Angels that LeFou and Gold would do as he said and stayed away.

The Beast had stopped in front of the gates, looking regal despite his monstrous form clad in a dark navy blue coat and black leather breeches, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

The petite blonde woman stood to affront the gates, and the Beast Prince studied what had become of his consort during her absence. Her skin was cracked and bruised, her lips tinged blue, her blonde curls stiff and dull. But her eyes were alight with ire.

Maria’s wrists were bound, the cold metal of the manacles digging and chaffing at the skin of her delicate wrists, bleeding.

“What do _you_ want?” the Beast growled in a low voice. His threatening baritone spurred merely a quiet shrug from this black-cloaked stranger. The man holding Maria captive took two steps closer towards the gates, tugging slightly and emitting a jab of angered pain on Maria’s pallid expression as the wind continued to pick up speed. The metal chaffed at her skin badly.

When the cloaked man on the other side of the gate spoke, his voice was acrid and hoarse and filled with a fiery hate.

“Is it true?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice. “That the master of this castle harbors Notre Dame de Paris’s own bell ringer and his wife behind these stone walls of your ‘shining’ castle, Prince?” he growled, his voice almost shaking with rage.

The Beast quirked a hairy eyebrow at the stranger. “What does it matter to you?” he demanded, suspicion welling within his chest. Something of this man’s figure seemed familiar, especially his voice, as though the Prince had heard it before. The Beast clenched his teeth together in anger. He shoved aside the issue by sparing a quick glance at Maria before looking back towards the man. “Why do you have Maria, boy? _Answer_ me!”

“Oh, _her_?” the stranger asked in a casual voice, almost as if he’d completely forgotten he’d harbored one of the Prince’s own women as his hostage, he looked at Maria from head to foot, stepping closer towards the shivering blonde and procuring a tiny key from a pocket of his black woolen robes. “I was _lost_. She so _kindly_ volunteered to show us the way here.”

He unshackled Maria and shoved Maria towards the Beast as the cursed Prince swung open the iron-wrought gates, catching Maria by her forearm just in time to prevent her from falling over. “I kept her alive. Said she would grant me an audience with you. And no, I had _nothing_ to do with those beatings.”

The Beast held Maria by the shoulders, feeling his consort practically melt into his warm embrace. He could not quite explain it, though he felt relieved that the girl was safe from harm. The Beast tore his gaze away from the young blonde, his mind only focused on who this man could be. There was a deeply unsettling, not to mention unhinged effect to this man now shrouded entirely in black. He was tall and lean behind his cloak, and he moved swiftly, deftly, his movements graceful.

The Prince knew this was no ordinary soldier who was now drawing even closer to him. The Beast felt his claws curl into Maria’s back, digging through the material of her gown.

She let out a pained little whimper, but he ignored it. “Who the bloody hell _are_ you?” he growled, the moment the cloaked stranger finally pulled down the hood of his cloak, causing the strength to immediately dissipate from the Beast’s knees, though he refused to grovel in front of Barret further.

He’d heard the stories. The man was famous throughout most of Europe for his brutality. Besides him, Maria went pale.

“You _took_ something of mine, Beast. I’d like it _back_ ,” he growled in his low and dangerous voice, unsmiling, unstirred. Darius Barret’s blue eyes burned with the passion to gut the Beast where he stood. The men’s voices around them rose up in whispers though no sellsword made a move for their hilts.

Even in the frigid winds of winter, the Beast felt the front and sides of his temples start to moisten, slick with cold fear. Taking a few steps back and taking Maria with him, keeping the young blonde close to his chest, Maria stopped him, looking surprised and hurt. “Your Highness, we _owe_ the man.”

The Beast blinked, startled at the sudden shift in countenance in his consort and hearth keep’s normally husky voice. To hear her desperate plea was not like Barreau at all.

But before he could ponder over this new change further, trying to decide whether or not he liked it or not, Darius Barret’s cold tone spoke, causing the fine hairs of fur on the back of his neck to stand upright on end as the man spoke.

“Give me what I came for, and I’ll _leave_. There’s no need for anyone here to get _hurt_ ,” he growled, one hand on the hilt of his weapon. “Bring me the young mademoiselle and her husband and this one sister’s, and I will remove myself from the premises, Prince, and you shall never see the likes of me again.”

The Beast Prince’s expression darkened as he chuckled morosely at the soldier’s demands. “I don’t think you’re quite in the position to be making _demands_ , boy. For you _see_ ,” he began speaking almost in a slow drawl in a smooth, languid tone, “I caught the wretch and his wife trying to escape. The boy, fortunately for them, I suppose, proved to be stronger than my guards estimated and was able to overpower them. They fled.”

Darius’s heart leaped into his throat at the news that Quasi and Belle had gotten out. He was about to ask after Maria’s sister, when the Beast-Prince, noticing his slightly hopeful expression that he had forgotten to mask, continued speaking.

“There _is_ , however, the matter of who helped them _escape_. My consort’s younger sibling has since gone _missing_ ,” he spat.

Darius felt his heart plummet to the pit of his stomach. He started to step forward, though realized the action would be viewed by the Beast-Prince as potentially hostile and stopped.

He steadied himself on legs that could barely stand up. “From what little I know of your sister, Maria, she was a skilled and intelligent young woman, little dove,” the Beast said, speaking more to Madellaine’s sister than to Darius at the moment, who, Darius was at least pleased to see, was in shock.

She was just as stunned, betrayed, and hurt by this as he was. Which was saying something. The Beast corrected himself and feigned concern for Madellaine de Barreau’s well-being.

Darius swallowed thickly as he could feel the creature’s icy blue eyes burning holes into him as he forced himself to breathe. His jaw was steel, his shaking fists clenched into knots.

He knew he had to turn on his heels and flee before he slaughtered every last man within his line of sight.

“Excuse me,” he growled, spewing his words like poisonous venom at the Beast, though he froze when the monster called out from behind. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to flee from this wretched place that looked and smelled like death. He wasn’t aware he had gone as pale as a ghost. His mind felt like was reeling with fear and questions.

What had happened? Where had Belle and Quasi gone off to? Had they made it through the Wolves’ Woods? And where, more importantly, was the woman that he loved? Where was Madellaine? Was she injured or dead in a ravine someplace?

He wanted nothing more than to throw back his head and _scream_ in frustration, having to clamp down hard on his tongue to avoid a yelling tirade to God, wanting to curse Him.

Where the bloody _hell_ was Madellaine?!? He turned away.

“A moment, Barret,” the Beast snarled, sounding thoroughly less than pleased at the fact Darius had unceremoniously turned his back on the Prince of these lands. “You cannot leave just _yet_.” His pseudo-concern made him want to puke. “You’ll _miss_ your parting gift,” the Beast barked hoarsely. “After all the trouble that I went to _catch_ it for you.”

“ _What_?” Darius exclaimed roughly, looking at the cursed Prince sideways out of the corner of his eye, wondering what new cutting remark the Duke’s son wished for him to hear.

The Beast motioned with a wave of his claw to a couple of guards who stood nervously behind him, marching back towards the side of the castle, the southwestern side, Darius noticed with a narrowed gaze, to retrieve whatever object it was that the Beast spoke, that he wished for the soldier to have.

Darius rolled his eyes and waited, shivering, with gritted teeth, his fingers twitching and itching to draw his weapon. He was in no _mood_ to be toyed with, and if he didn’t leave, and soon, then blood was going to be shed because he would gut every last man standing until there was nothing left.

After an interminable wait, the same pair of guards that had disappeared around the bend of the side of the castle reemerged. In their midst, a guard on either side, was a prisoner, barefoot, the hem of her purple silk gown torn and tattered.

The prisoner was petite, with blonde shaggy hair falling in stray wisps and strands to just above her white-boned shoulders. The captive writhed and screamed, struggling against the soldiers’ grasp. The pair of guards had only traveled a few feet when Darius felt his heart almost come to a complete standstill.

The color drained from his face in realization and anger as the Prince’s prisoner lifted her chin.

The hostage in the man’s grip was Madellaine, and she had been beaten within an inch of her life.


	69. To Go Back

**CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT**

The coldness of the Wolves’ Woods made Belle’s fingers go numb and only the soft, urgent tenor-like tones of Quasi’s quiet, shy voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Belle, love, _eat_.” She blinked herself out of her stupor.

Quasi’s gloved hand was outstretched, and he was handing out a stone-hard thing, the loaf of bread that Madellaine had packed. Given how heavily swathed in thick layers of her cloak, her numb hands couldn’t manage to fumble their way forward to take the bread from her husband.

Belle numbly accepted the bread with little enthusiasm, not sure she would be able to eat much, if at all. Her stomach felt like it constantly remained to clamor in a horrible emptiness that left her feeling starved, and yet whenever she did manage to keep down a mouthful, it was rare, though more often than naught, it found its way back up her throat as bile.

Her only comfort that would soothe her stomach was water dripped with lemon juice. It wasn’t very palatable to drink, but it helped.

“You need to eat something, Belle.” Quasi was practically begging her just short of thrusting the bread loaf at her chest. “To keep up your strength. We still have a lot of walking to do and I _don’t_ want you fainting.”

Belle accepted the loaf silently and pulled off a tiny corner, nibbling at it, though it wasn’t enough to quell the nauseous feeling in her stomach.

“Where _are_ we, Quasi?” Belle weakly managed to gasp out, looking around to the left and right in the thick dense forest.

Quasi followed his wife’s gaze but could only settle for shrugging his shoulders.

“Can’t see through this mist, but we couldn’t have gotten very far. We—we should go back, Quasi, find another way home,” Belle whispered faintly, overcome with emotion, wracked with guilt as the memory of Madellaine screaming at them the moment a pair of the Prince’s guards had found them wandering in the southeast corridor of the dungeons that would take them to the secret passageway Maria had told her of once, she had informed them quietly under her breath on the walk down.

Belle had wanted to stay behind with her friend, but Quasi had dragged her more or less kicking and screaming, reaching the edge of the woods after the pair of them had scrambled underground, beneath the crypts, where most of the Prince’s royal family’s tombs were buried.

Belle’s face showed silent disbelief at what they had done, they had left her friend _behind_. She barely had time to ponder this as she elicited a startled shriek of surprise as an arrow whizzed past her ear and very narrowly grazed the lobe and hit the tree trunk Belle stood behind.

Quasi whirled on the heel of his brown leather boot to face a hooded archer just as deft and nimble as Notre Dame’s bell ringer was.

Quick as lightning, the bell ringer stalked towards the hooded figure and was more than ready to strangle the man to death where he knelt crouched, but Belle was quicker and much shrewder than he was.

“ _Stop_!” she screamed, and all parties froze, their breaths caught on their throats. The archer was crouched on bended knee, aiming an arrow at Quasi’s neck, though the moment Belle’s husband lowered the hood of his cloak, she saw the archer relax and lower his hood, his shoulders slumping forward, as he recognized Notre Dame’s bell ringer was not an enemy.

She heard the archer let out a disgruntled sigh and retreated his weapon, copying her husband’s movements by lowering the hood of his blue cape and patting at some snow that had fallen onto his shoulder-length blonde locks.

“Captain Phoebus, it’s—it’s you, b—but…what are you doing out here?” she breathed breathlessly, exhaling a sigh of relief as the golden-haired captain of the king’s guard shot the pair an admonishing look of ire.

“Milady,” the Sun God murmured exasperatedly by way of response. “I thought the pair of you were more of Dupont’s bastards. The king’s guard received reports of a potential uprising and sent us here to investigate it for ourselves,” he growled bitterly, casting his hardened gaze towards the line of the trees, his attention focused somewhere on a point behind Belle’s head.

Belle quickly shook her head, shooting a sideways glance at her husband, who looked perplexed and more than a little astonished to see Captain Phoebus here in the Wolves’ Woods alongside them, but not altogether displeased. Belle parted her lips open to speak, but Quasi did not give Belle a chance as the bell ringer stepped in between Belle and Phoebus and rose himself to his full height of around 6’2.

Not quite as tall as Phoebus de Chateaupers, who stood at around 6’3 to 6’4, but tall enough.

“I’m glad you’re here, Captain. For once,” the bell ringer grunted in a rough, grating voice that in Belle’s mind sounded thoroughly displeased about being forced to interact with the captain, but grateful, still. “I have to go back, our friend Madellaine is in danger, and my wife needs an escort home,” he answered stiffly, feeling Belle come up to nudge beside him.

Had the entire city of Paris fallen on top of them?!? Belle swiveled her head and blinked owlishly at her husband as the blood drained from her face. She was quite certain she had misheard him. She could only stare at Quasi, wanting to believe that she had simply heard her husband wrong. But no. Quasimodo was as grim as a graveyard and there was not a trace of jest in the man’s somber and darkening pale cerulean irises right now.

“Y—you _can’t_ , Quasi,” Belle’s voice shook as it trembled. She swallowed down past the lump in her throat and tried again to find her voice. “They’ll _kill_ you, those soldiers if you go back. That _Beast_ will!”

Quasi merely looked at his wife, a little sadly, and shook his head. “The Prince’s guards still have Madellaine, Belle. They’ll kill _her_ if I _don’t_.”

Belle went stiff and rigid like one of his stone gargoyles as hot shame rained down upon her and pinked her cheeks as her hair was tousled into buoyant curls off her shoulders as the wind picked up speed.

The bell ringer’s wife desperately turned towards Phoebus, who quickly shook his head with a need to convince Notre Dame’s bell ringer that the young man’s idea was foolish, and the boy was out of his mind.

“Kid, we need to escort you back to Notre Dame. Get your wife in out of the cold. She’s in no condition to be traipsing through these woods while pregnant. Then when we get back, we can plan your friend’s rescue.”

Quasi shook his head vehemently, taking Belle’s hands, so soft and delicate and small in his rough, large, calloused gloved hands and squeezed.

“There’s no _time_ for that, Phoebus. Madellaine’s life is in danger. I cannot just _stand_ here idly by when one of our friends is _suffering_ , Captain. I would very much _appreciate_ it if you would escort my wife back home,” he beseeched his plea through gritted teeth as he stroked back a dark chocolate strand of Belle’s brown hair that had fallen across her pale face.

Belle’s heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. Her arms and hands went numb that she knew had nothing to do with the biting cold. She struggled to maintain her equilibrium as she swayed slightly, and she felt confident that her knees might have given out were it not for Quasi maintaining an ironclad grip on either of her shoulders as she watched him.

All of the colors drained from her face as she swallowed the bile that was rising in her throat. “You can’t go back, love,” she pleaded, unsure of what she had heard. “You—you _promised_ to stay by my side, Quasi…”

Quasi remorsefully ducked his chin so Belle wouldn’t see the hot shame marring his shimmering blue eyes. He swore he could almost hear Belle’s heart breaking, even with his slightly damaged hearing that was left with a fatigued ringing from years of ringing the bells at Notre Dame daily.

He nodded sorrowfully and slowly.

“Back to that _monster_.” It wasn’t even phrased as a question as it left Belle’s lips. She voiced her suspicions as if Belle were already certain, and he knew that his wife was, as it happened. “ _Why_?” Belle angrily shook her head, trying to send Quasi’s words away and not seeming to do a good enough job of it. “You—you said that you would take me back home. We—Darius or someone, will come for Madellaine, I’m sure of it. They-they’re probably already there right now as we speak,” she said, as her eyes questioned Quasi desperately.

Quasi stepped in front of Belle as she began to step away, desperate to make his wife understand, though before she could, a new voice, a man’s, Scottish from the sound of his accent and the slight lilt, interjected.

“He _is_ , as it so happens, and based on what I’ve seen of your priest’s work so far, the Barreau lass is in fine hands. She will be just fine, mademoiselle Dupont, you need not worry about your friend. Allow me to introduce myself. Monsieur Gold, at your service,” came his voice, causing the trio to whirl around collectively on their heels in search of the owner of the said voice. "I can help you get back to the church, Mademoiselle."

A tall, older man with a refined air stepped from out behind a tree, dressed in a set of thick black woolen robes. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short and neat, though his cheeks were pinked and windblown and he looked quite disgruntled.

Belle’s natural curiosity was piqued though she felt the tension in her shoulders dissipate as a second figure awkwardly bumbled and trailed his way behind him, looking rather embarrassed to see her, though not at all together displeased. The man noticed her looking and offered a coy little smile that in Belle’s mind, made the man look rather dashing.

He really _did_ look better when he smiled.

“This monsieur says the two of you know each other, milady?” he questioned, already sensing the answer as LeFou darted forward to where Belle stood, at a loss for words, her lips parted open in shock as she took in the shorter man’s stout form. LeFou eagerly clasped onto Belle’s hands.

“M—milady, I—I’m s- _sorry_ for everything,” LeFou stammered through his apology through gritted teeth. Belle couldn’t tell if it was from the cold that was causing the incessant chattering of his teeth or the shame and embarrassment of his actions thus far that were causing him to shake.

He stepped back and allowed his eyes to rake over Belle’s form in her advancing pregnancy. “I—I d—didn’t know Gaston would…do that. I—if I would have known, I—I would have done something to _stop_ him.”

A wave of sympathy and guilt-wracked through her body as she looked at the shorter, stout, and in her mind, broken man in front of her.

This man wasn’t a monster, as his best friend, Gaston, had been.

LeFou was a person, a human being, and had merely allied himself alongside Belle’s husband as a means of protection.

And LeFou had lived through a world of torment at Gaston’s hand, a concept she was all too familiar with, but Belle knew with Gaston now dead (and good riddance!) she was not about to continue that scorn.

“Hey…LeFou, please look at me,” she begged. Her voice was low and softer than silk, flowing through the air like a soft wind as she looked upon his face without any disgust.

The nervous man’s eyes met her glistening brown irises, his shining eyes filled with dismay and dread at what Belle thought of him right now.

There was a minuscule part of Belle that did not want to forgive LeFou for his part in her papa’s murder. He could have spoken out against Gaston and his actions, but he’d been entirely too much of a coward to do it. But the other side of Belle that won out, in the end, knew that she could not live her entire life bearing a grudge, that forgiveness had to start somewhere, and she was the only one left in LeFou’s life to provide it.

It took her several moments before she found her voice again.

“It’s all right. I…I forgive you. What Gaston did to Papa wasn’t _your_ fault.” His wide, glazed-over eyes blinked rapidly, as though the man were trying to process Belle’s unexpected words of kindness and forgiveness. He looked more than a little shocked by Belle’s kind reaction.

“Th—thank you, milady,” he murmured, sounding truly grateful.

Belle slowly nodded her head at LeFou’s words, her anger and fear towards Quasi’s plan to go back to the Beast-Prince’s castle slowly dissipating as she opened her mouth, prepared to accept the man’s apology when LeFou fumbled in the leather satchel worn diagonally across his body and fumbled with a letter, one that made her blood boil with anger at the sight of the sigil.

“Gaston’s family crest,” she whispered hoarsely. The sight of the decapitated lion’s head and the hunter holding it almost seemed to be laughing at her as LeFou awkwardly held it out for her. With shaking fingers, she outstretched a hand to take the parchment.

“M—Monsieur Laurent Dupont, h—he s—stopped us o—on the way here and bade me give it to you, Belle,” LeFou said, sounding nervous.

Belle nodded, swallowing nervously as she fumbled the parchment paper. In truth, ever since she had married Quasi, she’d forgotten about Gaston, about the man who had ruined her life, not wanting to dwell on her past nightmares, shoving them to the back of her mind and forcing herself to look forward to a brighter future, one she would mold with Quasi by her side as her husband and soon-to-be father to their boy or girl.

But now there was no escaping it now—one of them had to read the letter, and she felt Quasi nudge beside her, his chin resting on top of her right shoulder. Finally, with her heart pounding so loudly against her chest, she thought Quasi could hear it from behind her, she broke the seal with her fingernail, unfolded the parchment and let her eyes rake over Gaston’s brother’s neat handwriting, the letter clearly addressed to her.

_My lovely Belle,_

_It’s come to my attention that you are expecting Gaston’s heir to our household. Allow me to express my sincerest wishes on your future son’s behalf. I rejoice with you, Belle. Know that I am always willing to come to your aid, now that you are recently widowed, and especially now when you shall become a mother. You are in grave danger, more so than ever before, my dear. Call upon me, and I shall come to your aid, Belle._

_I could provide for you. Care for you in the manner that you and your son deserve, Belle, in a way that my bastard brother never could. Think over my offer. My scouts and I have received word that you are being held captive against your will by our own nation’s Prince. Even as I write this letter to you, lovely Belle, I’m coming for you._

_My brother and I never could abide that which won’t stand by their own, and I don’t think you need me to tell you, Belle. You are an intelligent woman, mademoiselle._

_You want what is best for the babe growing within you. I believe that I am the best choice. I’m coming for you, Belle. I promise that I will set you free, and give you a good life, the best life, and make up where my brother fell short. I will await your answer._

_Your faithful servant,_

_Laurent Dupont_.

Belle snorted, rolling her eyes to herself, as she read the last line of the letter, crumpling the piece of parchment paper into a ball, and chucking it over her shoulder. It was obvious the letter was intended for her, to plant the seeds of doubt into her mind. Even the way Laurent had addressed the letter, there was no use of the word ‘lady’, which in her mind, suggested a close and intimate nature of their relationship, which could not have been further off the truth. Was he trying to sow a grain of material distrust into her marriage?

 _Unless he doesn’t know I married Quasi_ , she thought, wracking her brain whilst trying to come up for a plausible explanation for why he’d written her. She didn’t know what Laurent had been thinking. She expected that he would have found her broken and miserable, a captive of the Prince, upon his arrival to the castle gates to lead the siege, so that he could be her savior.

“That entire family still thinks they _own_ me,” she murmured, angrily turning away from quasi, feeling her anger resurface in her chest at the thought of him leaving. “Laurent always _did_ have ambitions for his life.”

“ _Laurent_?” Quasi spluttered out the man’s name with no small amount of indignation as his brows rose further onto his forehead.

“Careful, one might think you’re _jealous_ , talking like that,” Belle mocked him, huffing in indignation, and folding her arms across her chest, shrinking into her thick blue cape as much as she possibly could for warmth from the bitter cold. She was still angry with him for wanting to leave.

“My _wife_ addresses another man by his given first name, what on God’s earth am I _supposed_ to think?” Quasi watched her carefully and incredulously, and for perhaps the hundredth time, Belle had an itch.

A yearning to know what thoughts were churning inside her bell ringer’s mind, or at least for his voice to betray some of his emotions.

“That she trusts you enough to _use_ it. Laurent and Gaston always wanted me to trust them both, insisted I call them by their first names.”

“And _do_ you?” Monsieur Gold interjected before Quasi could speak. She blinked rapidly at the older Scottish gentleman in alarm, asking silently what he meant. “ _Trust_ your brother-in-law?” he asked Belle kindly.

“No.” Belle shook her head as she forced her mind to recollect on her past acquaintanceship with Gaston’s older brother, which was admittedly one of the most complicated relationships in her entire adult life.

It came only close to the connection between her and Quasi.

“Are you afraid of him?” Gold pressed further, taking a cautious step forward so that he was standing in front of both Belle and Quasi.

 _Was_ she? This question posed to her gave Belle pause as she stopped to consider it. Currently, the one thing she was afraid of was the monster back at the castle, and the unknown fate of Madellaine, and what unspeakable torment her friend might be suffering at the Beast’s paws.

“No. I don’t think Laurent would harm me, Monsieur Gold,” Belle answered half-truthfully.

She was not afraid of anyone in Gaston’s family because she knew they would never personally hurt her. However, both brothers had already done so much throughout their lives that brought her much suffering. _Like Gaston murdering my father_ , Belle thought bitterly.

“Not _you_ , perhaps, but what of the babe growing inside of you, mademoiselle?” Gold pressed, a note of bitterness in his tone now.

Belle felt her breaths hitch in her throat as she stared at Gold, at a loss for words. It was a good point.

Gold, sensing her shock, continued.

“The brother, Laurent? He would most likely want your heir to be _his_ , young mademoiselle. I don’t think when he learns of your marriage to _him_ ,” here, the man jerked his lined and weathered face towards Quasi, who bristled, but said nothing for the moment, “he will react at all favorably, dearie.”

Belle swallowed hard, struggling to grasp her emotions. She felt dizzy, it was all too much for her mind to process. The air in the woods around her became stifling, her lungs gasping for the biting cold oxygen around her, though they refused to take in any fresh air. She needed to go.

She needed to breathe, she needed to…needed to leave this place.

In a dazed haze, she staggered away from Quasi the moment she felt his gloved hand grip her shoulder, not wanting the man’s touch if he was going to coldly abandon her now, to save their friend, she knew it didn’t matter. The Beast would _kill_ him. Belle staggered forward, tripping on what was either a hidden overgrown tree root or perhaps her own foot.

Belle felt herself fall into something hard and strong, and as she craned her neck upward to see who had caught her fall, half expecting it to be Quasi, she blinked in surprise and confusion to find Gold holding her.

“Y—you’re _not_ coming _back_ ,” she croaked out, surprised to find Gold’s eyes sparkling with something like tenderness, _concern_ for her. Belle’s brows furrowed in confusion. She couldn’t be sure, but she felt as if somehow…she knew this man now holding onto her for dear life.

As if they had met somewhere before, in another time, another place, but Belle couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Gold's eyes lit with sadness.

She announced her words, speaking to Quasi more so than Gold, her tone flat and emotionless. She let out a gasp as Gold, instead of righting her posture, merely lowered himself into a kneeling position, a crouch as he propped Belle to sit upright against a tree to catch her breath.

Quasi could not bear to hear the dread in Belle’s grim prediction. He stepped forward, a hand outstretched to help her, bristling silently, and seething with gritted teeth when Gold shot him an admonishing look, warning him not to approach his wife in her currently vulnerable state.

“Of course, I’ll come back. _Nothing_ will stop me, love,” he swore, faltering in his movements. “It’s only going to be a couple of days. I’ll help Darius. We’ll bring Madellaine back to the cathedral. She promised to help you during childbirth, and she’s a good friend. We can’t let her _rot_ there.”

As he studied Belle’s mournful and disbelieving expression, Quasi was the one, not Belle, who felt his eyes beginning to sting and prick with tears. “Please, believe me, Belle,” he beseeched. “I love you with all my heart. But this is something I have to do. I have to go back for them.” He crept forward gingerly and knelt into a crouch in front of her, trying to bring her hand to his heart, though she yanked out of his grasp and turned her head sharply to the right and looked away from Quasi. “You and our child are everything to me, love. The breath in my lungs, the blood in my veins. I _will_ come back to you both. I _promise_ ,” he vowed.

He could see the pain and fear that was plaguing Belle’s mind at the thought that he would not return to her. It broke his heart. Quasi wanted his wife to be assured that his absence was not going to end the way she believed, but he did not know how to reassure her that he would be fine.

Instead, he tried to show her. Quasi leaned in towards her jaw, towards the area just below her ear. He’d not realized it had quickly become one of his favorite places to kiss her. He burned with the desire to press his lips against her creamy, milky skin, but she did not grant him that.

Belle could barely look Quasi in the eyes as she jerked her head away as she felt her anger wind its icy tendrils around her heart and squeezed hard. He was leaving her. She did not want to gift him with any affection now when he was blindly and foolishly putting his own life at risk.

It could have been that Belle couldn’t bear to think this was the last time she would feel her husband’s lips pressed against hers. Whatever her reasons were, the inventor’s daughter drew back and pulled away from him, not allowing Quasi to touch her. It wounded him greatly, she knew.

But she couldn’t manage to pretend to care anymore. Standing as tall and as proud as she could muster, Belle promptly turned her back on Quasi.

Quasi felt his heart shatter as his wife refused his kiss. He rose to his feet, wanting nothing more than for the earthen floor beneath his leather boots to open up and swallow him whole and not let him come out.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut with regret. He knew he deserved every bit of her mistrust and her anger at what he was about to do for their friend. Quasi flinched as Belle spoke to him in a clipped and icy-cold tone.

“ _Go_. _Leave_.” Belle sighed heavily as she shakily rose to her feet with Gold’s help, who had one hand on the small of her back. LeFou meanwhile, was looking at a loss, not wanting tensions and discord to erupt, though it seemed that it already had. “Do what you _have_ to, Quasi.”

She turned away from him, but not before Notre Dame’s bell ringer caught a quick glimpse of the defeat prominent on her pale face.

There was nothing more to be said. Belle turned her back on Quasi and stared straight ahead of her, as if not seeing her husband at all by her side. She felt the world spinning beneath her feet and thank goodness for LeFou and Gold taking either side of her arm, with Gold relinquishing his grip as LeFou murmured something under his breath about getting Belle home and out of the cold as quickly as possible and began to lead her off.

Belle did not say a single word to Quasi as she walked away, her head held high, her posture stiff, her chin jutted out slightly defiantly.

Quasi remained rooted to the spot for longer than he’d planned. He didn’t think he could move at all. He knew he should have killed that stupid Prince when he’d had the chance.

It was because of his failure to act that night in the cathedral’s library, the inactions of the past that were now hurting Belle, and Madellaine.

Maybe he had no right to hope that she would see his departure to head back to the Beast-Prince’s castle as anything but a betrayal on his part. But he knew that the Beast’s death was the only possible way that he could safely ensure his return to the church.

He felt eager to have that _monster_ out of their lives once and for all.

“She won’t speak to me, monsieur,” Quasi lamented to Gold, who stood next to him, bidding the bell ringer his wishes for a safe trek back.

“I cannot blame her for that, boy,” Gold answered in a gruff-sounding voice that sounded hoarse. He thought for a moment, compassionately so, about Belle’s reactions to the boy’s plan to return. “She fears for you. Belle has been through unimaginable trauma, my friend,” he reminded the bell ringer.

Quasi didn't know what to say and merely grunted wordlessly in response.

Rumple quirked a brow at the boy's speechlessness but pressed on. “There is…still much with which she must come to terms with everything that has happened to her thus far in her life. I imagine she will question much, and perhaps not feel completely healed, maybe for a number of years.” Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, wishing that he could help his wife’s ancestor in some way, but he did not want to get too close to the young woman, nor interfere in her life, then.

“But I’ve _told_ her I will come back. I swore a vow.” Quasi worried, chewing at the wall of his mouth and painfully twisting his gloved hands together. “She _knows_ that I love her, more than anything else in this life.”

“Yes. Belle does. She’s loyal and steadfast that way.” Gold agreed with the younger man, a flicker of emotion that Quasi could only begin to describe as something akin to affection flitting through the man’s eyes, but before he could dwell on it, it vanished as quickly as it had come. “But that is not what troubles your wife, boy. She is more hurt with you than angry and believe me. I should _know_ ,” he growled bitterly. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I would wager,” Gold told the boy, understandingly, shooting Quasimodo a rather sympathetic little look. He glanced sideways at the cathedral’s bell ringer’s forlorn and quite frankly, miserable expression and clapped the younger boy on the back. “Fear not. I will see your wife safely returned to the cathedral. She’s…”

He paused, unsure of what he could say. “Her father was… a family _friend_ ,” he emphasized at last, relieved when he witnessed the red-haired bell ringer quirk a brow in suspicion, though he nodded. “I should like the time to catch up. I will look after Belle. I will protect your wife, with my life.”

Quasi nodded, moved with gratitude. “Take care of her. Protect her,” he implored, unable to keep the note of desperation from his voice.

Rumpelstiltskin looked towards his wife’s ancestor’s husband, a serious and worried frown etched on his lined face. It was the first time he’d heard the wretch allude to any fear that he might not survive his rescue attempt. He understood it would mean great sacrifice. “I will.”

Quasi gave one last incline of his head towards Monsieur Gold and turned his back, fixing his eyes upon the woodland path ahead, where Captain Phoebus had already walked on ahead, wanting to give the cathedral’s bell ringer and his wife a moment, though his handsome, chiseled face was wracked with a sympathetic look Quasi _didn’t_ want.

As he stalked his way towards Phoebus, he clenched his jaw and fought against the lump forming in his throat. The burning memory of the kiss that Belle did not give him plagued his thoughts like poison.

He prayed a silent vow to God above that he and Phoebus would walk through these damned cursed woods only for a short while, that he, Phoebus, and Darius would do what needed to be done to save Belle’s friend and Darius’s love and that he could return home to his family.

As Phoebus led the way, Quasi risked one last peek over his shoulder and gave a start. Belle, the short man, LeFou, and Monsieur Gold were nowhere to be found in the distance. It was as if they’d vanished.

Almost as if… “ _By magic_ ,” he whispered hoarsely, before giving his head a curt shake to clear his mind, carding his fingers through his red hair, stifling a growl of frustration as Phoebus barked at the boy to hurry it up.

As the pair of men walked, the parapets and buttresses of the cursed Prince’s castle once more came into their line of sight, it started to snow, and their pace quickened as they heard the familiar battle cry of men, what sounded like hundreds of soldiers shouting.

The two men looked at each other for a moment, a dark look flitting across both their faces, before breaking into a run.

The siege of the Prince’s castle had already begun.


	70. Human Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh, spoilers? lol. No, but I suck at titles. Minor warning, we would be needing quite a strong stomach for this chapter, because...well, I won't spoil it. Part of me feels like I could* have spent more time with Adam as the Beast, but this story was never about the Prince, strictly Quasibelle, and I didn't want to take too much of the focus away from our main lovebirds but enjoy!

**CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE**

Everywhere Quasi and Phoebus looked, there was chaos that ensued as Laurent Dupont and his men tore the gates of the castle down, and the riders thundered their way, raving a path by hacking off heads, spilling guts and blood in the name of Gaston Dupont, wanting vengeance for what the Prince had stolen from the eldest brother of the Dupont family line. Half of a hundred riders pursued the castle in every direction, causing the loud clanging of iron against iron, causing the Prince’s castle to utterly drown in the screams of the starving and the sick as the servants, innocent women, and children were evacuated, leaving every able-bodied man in the Prince’s employment to fight if they were able.

Quasi’s only consolation was that he was grateful Belle was not here by him to see such violence and bloodshed. Even his stomach churned at the few gruesome glimpses he did not manage, and there was no telling what Belle’s stomach would have been like if she had insisted on coming back with them. He shot a silent prayer to God if He was listening to a wretch like him to let Monsieur Gold and the other man, LeFou, keep his wife safe. Laurent’s men raved their path without giving a chance for the Prince’s soldiers to recuperate, much less prepare for battle.

The slaughter was a truly devastating and glorious ambush as the white snow that had begun to fall from the sky turned garish red as blood blanketed the ground with each man cut down. By the end of most of the fighting, Phoebus’s sword was drenched crimson in the blood of God only knew how many men.

He’d spent his fury well vented through these seas of soldiers bearing the Dupont family crest on their armor, imagining all of them bearing Judge Claude Frollo’s face instead.

Phoebus slashed his way towards the halls, up the staircases, slashing left and right rather ungracefully, clearing a path for the bell ringer. Quasi’s skin was flushing in both dread and excitement as his boot crashed open the door to her quarters with the strength of ten strong men, screaming his friend’s name.

“Madellaine? **MADELLAINE**!” he roared, poking his head through the young woman’s chambers in the servants’ quarters. Quasi cursed himself as his eyes made a quick scan of the barren, desolate room. The girl’s quarters were empty, it was as he had feared. She had been moved, and he had no idea where to look. His rapid breaths increased in his chest as he thrashed the wardrobe, overturning the tables in his violent fury, ripping the sheets and fur pelts from the bed but did not find his wife’s friend.

His anger spent as the last surge of adrenaline vented through his veins, Quasi collapsed on the edge of the bed’s mattress, wondering where the Prince’s men could have moved her to. He looked at the utter trashed wreck he’d made of Madellaine’s room, the last space they had filled before she had helped him and Belle to escape before falling behind once they’d gotten caught, saying she could handle the guards, and for Quasi to get Belle as far away from the castle to safety as possible.

“She’s not _here_ , boy,” came Phoebus’s gruff barking tone from the doorway as Quasi wrenched himself off the side of the bed to continue, in his mind, their fruitless search. “Let’s try outside. The front there was some kind of commotion. We’ll check there next. We’ll _find_ her, Quasi,” Captain Phoebus promised, though his tone shook slightly, and it sounded to Quasi like the golden-haired Sun God’s voice lacked the conviction to sell the argument he really wanted to make.

Nevertheless, Quasi merely grunted and allowed Phoebus to lead the way back outside.

He could only pray they would find Madellaine and that they weren’t too late.

* * *

Darius could barely take his eyes off Madellaine as she struggled and fought with what little meager strength she had, but it simply wasn’t enough to free herself from the guard’s clutches who had her bound by a length of rope tying her hands. Her near-hysterical wails filled the courtyard and ripped Darius’s heart to shreds. Quasi and Belle had escaped, but Madellaine had been caught, and from the looks of things, hadn’t told the guards anything to go off of. Her right eye was blackened, and there was a bleeding gash above her left browbone and at the right edge of her lip, trickling blood down her face and onto the barren ground.

The Beast turned his head coldly to the side to regard him, and the wrathful glare in the monster’s listless blue eyes chilled the blood in his veins. “Did you really think that I did not _know_?” he asked rhetorically, scoffing as his nostrils flared in agitation. “I have spies and scouts _everywhere_ , Barret. _Nothing_ happens within the walls of my castle that I don’t know about, Darius.”

Here, he turned to Maria and Darius couldn’t be sure, but the man swore the Beast-Prince shot Madellaine’s sister a disappointed look. Maria swallowed and looked back at Darius.

Darius knew that the Beast intended his men to carry out that which he had feared as a punishment for helping Belle and Quasi escape. His plan was surely to kill Madellaine to punish her for her treason for disobeying the master of the castle and leave him and Maria as witnesses to the young woman’s gruesome murder. He had no time whatsoever to feel his heart soar at seeing the beloved sight of the woman who he knew himself to be in love with still alive, bruised and battered though her entire body was.

His worried, sorrowful eyes fell mournfully on Madellaine’s face as she was marched the last steps and forced into a kneeling position on her knees in front of one of the Prince’s foot soldiers.

Unable to resist the guards any longer, she crumpled, and her expression now held the same dread that Darius and Maria’s did. It was as if the girl knew what was about to happen and had been anticipating the worst to come for her helping them escape.

Her eyes caught Darius’s as he lurched forward, the hand on his sword hilt, ready to cut down any man in his path who would try to keep him from her, but before he could reach Madellaine, two more guards bounded forward and halted the soldier’s progress with the points of their own swords at his throat. Darius stopped, feeling lightheaded and quite breathless, knowing that he would be of no hope to Maria or Madellaine if the men ran him through with their swords. He halted his footsteps.

He squinted his eyes, taking in every last detail of the Prince’s guard who’d just sent Madellaine to her knees with a swift kick at the back of her knees, causing her to double over in pain. The guard would not live to see another sunrise or sunset.

“M—Monsieur,” Madellaine croaked hoarsely, flatly. Darius heard a haunting dread in the young blonde’s voice that he sincerely hoped never to hear again. He missed hearing her smile.

“I trust your time here as my guest has been… _adequate_ , little dove, wouldn’t you say?” The Beast paused to shoot a condescending look towards both Maria and Darius, who said nothing. They couldn’t. both of them were too stunned to speak.

“Your Grace. _Stop_ this!” Maria begged, but the cursed Prince raised a furry claw to quiet his consort. Her concern for her sister was so great, that she obeyed, clamping her lips tightly shut.

“ _Enough_ ,” he growled, his baritone voice low and dangerous. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t the time nor the care to deal with this monstrous _traitor_ , wretched little _succubus_ ,” he hissed. He turned his wrathful gaze towards Madellaine. “You have allowed something of mine to escape this castle,” the Beast continued, glancing quickly towards Darius, seeming to bask in the growing fear on the dark-haired former soldier’s face. “Something that I fear shall now never be returned to me, Barreau. You’ve cost me my _librarian_ , wench,” he growled angrily.

Maria turned her face to the Beast, dropping her hands to the ground as the strength gave out in her knees and soon, she was kneeling beside her sister. She knew what the master of the castle had planned for her. She would beg and grovel if that’s what he wanted of her, if that was what this monster wanted to hear.

“ _Please_. Please, Your Grace,” she implored frantically. “I beg of you.” Frightened tears started to pour relentlessly from her lids. Swallowing down hard, she continued her plea. “Let my sister go free. You can keep me. Do whatever you want of me but let Madellaine go. She’s done nothing wrong,” Maria begged.

“ _Adam_!” Darius roared in shock, pleased to see the cursed Prince give a start at the use of his first name from one of Europe’s finest warriors. “Surely you wouldn’t _dare_ do this!” He trailed off as he stared at the monstrous form of the cursed prince, wondering what witch had spelled him so badly.

He felt certain that this wretched Prince was going to do whatever he liked to both women and then continue after Belle. Darius’s heart broke at Maria’s desperate appeal to her master to implore the man to show even an ounce of mercy. Though he did not care for Madellaine’s sister one bit, he was not quick to forget that Maria had more or less given her blessing.

He had to find some way to get the women out, _safely_. But before he could act, the Prince’s guards flanking either side of the women from their kneeling positions on the ground moved forward of their own volition, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Maria’s eyes grew wide, and she clutched onto her sister.

She shook her head in horror. “ _No_!” she begged through her pitiful sobs as her entire body was wracked with fear and hurt.

Maria tried her hardest to scoot backward with Madellaine in tow, though the only thing the older woman succeeded in doing was backing themselves into the legs of one of the guards flanking them. The men knelt, moving around Madellaine, stopping any hope for her sister to escape, as they pinned her sister to the ground. “ **NO**! Please, no!” Maria screamed in terror and could only writhe against the guard’s grip holding her captive, though before she could attempt to wriggle her way out of the man’s grasp, there was a flash of silver and a cloud of white-hot flaring pain erupted behind Maria’s eyelids, blinding her temporarily. She screamed.

“ **NO**!” Madellaine’s shriek resounded over the clamor of battle around them as Dupont’s soldiers continued to storm the castle while the Prince’s men, what was left of them, put up what little of a fight they could manage to stave them off.

Darius struggled to run to Madellaine’s side through the remnants of the battle waging war both behind and in front of him. His body seemed like it moved in slow motion as he watched the instant of pain turn to blind confusion on her sister’s face.

Maria stared down at the dagger buried in her torso as though she could not quite manage to discern what happened. Her lips parted, gasping for oxygen. In shock, Maria brought her hands up to clasp at the wound, blood pouring over her white-boned fingers. She regarded the stain on her hands and her eyes looked up to meet her sister’s pleading gaze as she sank to the ground.

Madellaine’s mind raced with dread and horror. How could this have _happened_? Why couldn’t it have been her instead? She felt as though she had been stabbed through the heart watching her sister dying in front of her. If it had been her own skin torn by the blade, it would surely be less torture than seeing it so hatefully driven through her own family member.

Darius finally reached Madellaine’s side as she scrambled to her knees, kneeling into a crouch just in time to catch the girl. Madellaine’s limp form leaned back into his arms. He could not bear the fear and bewilderment in her sister’s eyes as Maria stared at her, her blue eyes already starting to become cloudy.

“Take…care of her…Barret…” she whispered faintly. For one brief moment, Maria could see Madellaine’s face through the haze that was clouding her vision, causing it to become hazy. She reached out her arm to take her sister’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“ _Please_ ,” Madellaine begged in a pitiful little whimper that shattered Darius’s heart as he wound his arms around her middle. “Ngh—don’t—don’t go, stay _with_ us, Maria. Fight it,” she pleaded.

Maria’s hand went limp in Madellaine’s grasp and her hand slipped out of her sister’s, leaving a trail of slimy blood down her fingertips. Maria’s head rested back against the ground, and her eyelids fluttered closed as she drew in her last breath and died.

Madellaine moved her eyes at the horror around her, carcasses still fresh and warm, her sister, now lying _lifeless_ beside her. She shuddered away from the massacre and somehow, as a surge of raw adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream, giving her new strength, she ripped away from Darius’s strong embrace.

It felt as though whichever man had done this to Maria had plunged his hand inside of her chest and had ripped out her heart.

The strong grip of Darius’s hands winding around her waist held her in place and she didn’t even feel her knees weakening, her chest starting to hyperventilate, her heart and soul, what was left of it, as a piece had just died alongside her sister, plunged into an abysmal pit, an abyss. The image of her sister’s corpse, bloodied, lifeless, burned behind her retinas. When Darius finally covered her line of sight with a numb embrace, whispering in her ear to come away, not to look, and a gentle kiss on her forehead, the tears came flooding out of her eyelids like a dam bursting. Madellaine’s shoulders heaved in pain.

“ _No_ …” she whispered, throat hollow. “ _Don’t leave me_ …”

She began to scream.

* * *

A muscle in his jaw began to twitch as a drop of rage, a fever, spread through his bloodstream so fast, he couldn’t fathom it. A blinding rage surged through the Beast’s veins that he had almost no time to process what was happening to him as his narrowed blue eyes met the gaze of the guard who’d plunged the hilt of his weapon into Maria’s chest, before his blood froze and went cold in his veins as the listless gaze of Gaston’s older brother, Laurent, met his eyes as he wiped his blade clean of Maria’s blood.

The Beast inexplicably felt tears burn behind his eyes, clearing a path through the blood in his face as Gaston’s brother half-smiled. “Such a _waste_.” He clucked his tongue in mock disappointment and stepped over Maria’s lifeless body, kicking it aside with the heel of his boot. He glanced over his shoulder behind him towards Darius, who was struggling and practically fighting Maria’s sister tooth and nail to drag her away from the horrific scene, not wanting the broken young woman to witness it.

The longer the Beast stared numbly at the blonde’s lifeless corpse lying on the ground, the pressure in his head finally exploded, along with a blood curdling scream as he allowed the mad beast within himself to take control at what his old friend’s brother had done. He bounded forward towards Laurent Dupont, tackling him to the ground alongside Maria’s body, baring his teeth with such a raging passion he swore he felt his pupils shrink.

As he wrestled with Gaston’s brother, a series of memories flitted through the cursed Prince’s mind and with it, a desire to kill.

A hard rip through flesh and bone as the Beast in his sea of fury as he lowered his head to the man’s neck, impaling his incisors into the junction between the bastard’s neck and his shoulder. He cried out in pain and shock, a guttural, choking sound, and there was a horrible explosion in the Beast’s brain as he tasted the man’s blood, sweet like mo on the edges of his mouth. He felt power course through his cursed, wretched body.

It took everything in him not to drain the bastard dry, and when he pulled back, his blood painting his lips, the Beast watched for several more minutes as the blood oozed from his neck. He tore his eyes away the moment the bleeding stopped.

The memories still ran through his mind, unrelenting. The other children when he was little that would gang up on him, his sweet and kind mother who always had a gentle word to say, his father. And cobalt eyed Maria, he realized with a sick sense of dread. Quite possibly the most beautiful thing could happen to him, perhaps the only woman who understood him and his ways.

He did not love Belle. He never could. Not like…like this. it was always Maria, right when he was old enough to understand.

Maria descending off her horse at the castle’s gates fresh from a hunt, Maria glaring, blushing at him, crinkling her brows in the way she tended to do whenever nervous or thinking about something. Her golden blonde hair like that of a halo, how her skin was ticklish at the nape, how her blue eyes seemed to ignite…

The Beast turned away, his fur matted and tangled in a sea of crimson blood and shredded skin from what was left of his, well, savage and beastly attack on Laurent Dupont. His shoulders heaved with an undiluted pressure in release of his wretched life’s worth of pain and misery and misunderstanding, his aching throat screamed, and hot rapid tears blurred the edges of his eyes.

If only she knew…If only he could get her _back_ , he’d be cold and lifeless the moment Maria de Barreau came back to him, with nothing but air between the ground and his feet. But she didn’t know, how much in his deep, twisted mind that he…that he...he _loved_ her.

His blue eyes widened in a look of abject shock and utter terror. He’d never once said it. Theirs was a bland affair, awful yes, but she was his light in the dark tunnel of his damned life. She saw through the beast that he was, drowned him, only to revive him, and then drown him again. Over and over and over.

The Beast let out a growl and held out his hand in shock as a white-hot blinding pain erupted from behind his eyelids. Pulsing from his claws was a strange white light, it hurt just to stare at it.

He watched it flicker, changing colors from ruby to amber, and then back to gold. He clenched his furry fists, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this. He doubled over as another surge of pain very nearly crippled him, sending him immobile and causing him to sink to his knees. His mouth became filled with the coppery tang of blood as it lingered upon his tongue, and it felt like fire rushing through his veins, burning his insides, searing hotter than a branding iron.

He moaned as his vision shifted and the world erupted with colors. At first, it hurt like hell, but then he felt suddenly filled with a rejuvenated sense of strength and power.

He pushed himself up and stared at his hand again once his vision slowly but surely cleared. His mouth set in a hard line. The light burned brighter, and he curled his fingers upwards. He was…

He was _human_ again. The silence that lingered around him as Darius looked on in shock at what the bloody hell had just happened, Madellaine having gone limp and unconscious in his arms, with Darius holding Maria’s sister bridal style against his chest, her head lolled back against the crook of his elbow, though the man said nothing. All was still and quiet. Almost too quiet, and filled the Prince’s ears with a horrible, fatigued ringing.

The silence around Adam was just a split second. Just long enough for him to break out in a terror and a cold sweat as he looked towards the massacre that Dupont and his men had made of his grounds, what was left of his familial ancestral home.

And then, the explosion.

Adam barely managed to make his way towards where Maria's body lay lifeless, when the first chunk of stone from the castle flew sailing through the air and hit him, rubble and debris flying in all directions. He looked up blearily through his hazy vision, clutching onto Maria's lifeless body, just in time to see Belle's husband and the captain of the king's guard come up behind Darius and Madellaine and shove them down with all their might.

He was barely conscious when another chunk of stone struck Adam's temple, and his world went black and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is...please don't hate me XD


	71. Solace over Tea

**CHAPTER SEVENTY**

Belle bit down on her bottom lip, looking towards the streets of the marketplace while she sat on the frontmost step of the cathedral steps, feeling like she was in a daze.

Rest was not going to find her anytime soon, and when LeFou had brought her a small morsel of cheese and some bread from the kitchens, thanks to Alice, she’d barely managed to consume a single bite. Food would not find her either.

A voice from behind her, Gold’s, reached her eardrums. “You should _rest_ , milady. You will do your husband or the babe no good if you’re taxed to the point you can barely stand upright, Belle,” Gold nudged alongside her and heaved a little groan, his joints seeming like they protested on sitting on a cold concrete step while she lay in wait for her husband and Captain Phoebus to hopefully return with Madellaine and Darius, and for all of them to be relatively unharmed.

He shot her a pointed look that felt to Belle like the man could peer into her mind, like some sort of fortune-teller or mind reader, or a Seer even, and could see the inner conflict raging a war on her mind.

“Your pregnancy is an exhaustive and tremendous effort for both the body and mind. You shouldn’t stress yourself so.”

She nodded and shot Gold what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though Belle felt her cheeks’ reluctance to be molded so falsely, and they both knew her smile she currently shot in his direction was strained and did not meet her eyes.

“Thank you, monsieur, you are very kind. I—I will take your words into consideration, but I am sure I’ll be just _fine_ , Monsieur Gold,” she murmured, numbly accepting the man’s own cloak as he sensed she was not about to budge from her perch on the step and grumbled to himself under his breath as he unfastened his cloak, draping it over her shoulders in an almost tender, intimate way.

It gave her pause, but not long enough to let her dwell on it. Her thoughts were filled with dread and terror for her friends and her husband. Her mind was plaguing her with a horrible thought that she wouldn’t see either of them again, while her heart held onto the hope of seeing them stroll up the streets of the now-deserted Parisian market. She could not help but to wonder if Quasi and the others did not return, how long Notre Dame would remain her safe haven.

Surely Laurent or the next youngest brother down the Dupont family line (of which Gaston had five, all of them still older than her, the youngest was older by maybe a year, at best) would come to claim their prize.

Belle had a habit on occasion, since Gold had joined her here on the front steps of Notre Dame, sneaking a peek at the strange man with whom, from what little he told her on the way back, was well acquainted with Darius’s family, how he seemed to look at her, like he knew her, somehow.

But she was quite certain that the two had never met. She regarded Monsieur Gold with appreciation still, for all that he had done in escorting her and LeFou safely back home, though the bell towers felt desolate, cold, and empty without her husband’s warm presence. She did not want to linger there a moment longer than she had to, hence she had found her way down here, to wait for Quasi.

Yet, there was a nagging suspicion at the back of her mind that Quasi was not going to return, and she did not know admittedly what to do next if that were the case here.

She feared that another messenger would come and deliver the news to Belle that yet, for a second time, Quasi had died, only this time, he wasn’t going to be coming back, for there would be no one there to save her lover’s life.

Gold’s quiet Scottish accent pulled Belle from her thoughts. He sounded skittish about something, as though he knew something of the ambiguity of her husband’s situation that Belle did not, and it greatly unnerved her.

“Your child will be proud of _both_ sides of his family, my dear. If you plan on staying here, however, might I recommend doing all that you can to insulate the boy’s tower lofts upstairs?” Here, Gold shot her a kind smile and jerked his head towards the twin bell tower lofts. “If you’re going to be raising your babe here, you won’t want it, or yourself,” he added almost as an afterthought, “to get _sick_. If you like, to keep your mind occupied until his return, I would be more than happy to help you insulate your loft.”

Belle blinked owlishly at Gold’s words. He was speaking to her now as if this were already a foregone conclusion, that he was certain that Quasi would return.

There was a part of her that was flattered at this Scottish man’s consideration and concern for her well-being and that of her babe’s as well, but she could not still shake the feeling that Quasimodo _wasn’t_ coming back. She couldn’t say the same for Darius and Madellaine, not knowing the status of their condition, but it was just a feeling.

She prayed to God that she was wrong about this. Belle did not wish to accept any obligations from a man who claimed to know her father in a past life when he was younger. She could only surmise that their acquaintance had occurred sometime before her birth, as she had never met Monsieur Gold before until tonight.

She had spent the last hour and a half remained rooted to this very spot, determined that she would leave once they received word of Quasi’s death, for she feared that was exactly what would occur. As long as Gaston’s family knew where to find her, she would never be free.

“That is very kind of you, monsieur,” she began hesitantly, careful to choose her words so as to not seem ungrateful. “But I think it best if I leave here as soon as we…as we receive word from the Prince’s castle,” she said.

Belle silently observed as Monsieur Gold’s face fell in confusion and his brows furrowed as his lips pursed together in a thin line as he looked at her.

“Please, call me Rumple.” He chuckled a little at Belle’s look of wide-eyed astonishment upon hearing such an unusual first name. “It’s…a different name, I know, but no more than your husband’s first name. And I do not understand,” he continued. “When your bell ringer returns, he will be…” His voice trailed off, trying to make the man’s case in his absence. He had seen this Belle and the boy’s fates for himself, as had Regina. He knew exactly what would happen to him and to Belle’s ancestor, their child, all of it.

To find that this Belle was even considering abandoning the place that the history books had said she’d called home for the remainder of her days until she passed away was…disconcerting. _Unless I’ve disrupted something in this timeline by coming here. Regina too_ , he thought wildly, feeling a surge of a panic prick at his heartstrings suddenly.

He felt a vent of anger course through his veins at the thought of his wife’s ancestor leaving the sanctity of the church, perhaps the one place in all of France for that matter, where she would be the safest from harm.

“You _can’t_ ,” he growled, hoping to keep the note of desperation and anger from his voice. “We need to wait here for your husband and Monsieur Barret and his new _love_ ,” he snorted, finding it difficult not to roll his eyes at Killian’s doppelganger of an ancestor so far into his family’s past yet again proving his suspicion that the entire line of men in the pirate’s family favored blondes.

Briefly, he wished Emma were here. Swann would know what to say to put his wife’s distant ancestor at ease over this better than him.

Rumple felt as though he were out of his element entirely by offering his condolences, and what Belle Dupont needed most of all during this trying time was a female companion. Unfortunately, Madellaine de Barreau was still somewhere back at the Prince’s castle, buried underneath the rubble, as were Darius, the boy, the Prince, and the blonde lass’s sister.

He’d attempted several times to contact Agathe and Regina in their shared method of almost impossible telepathy and had been met with naught but silence. It was frustrating to no end, to not know what was happening, but Belle needed comfort more than he did.

He stifled a weary groan as he realized it was going to be up to him to smooth things over, like it or not. He paused, wracking his brain while he searched for what to say, anything to say to the young mademoiselle seated next to him on the topmost step to put her mind at ease now.

Belle squeezed her eyes tightly shut and blinked back an onset of fresh tears pricking at the corners of her lids. Her feelings were intensified when she heard Rumple speak again, and she thought her heart might well burst.

“Milady, I _implore_ you to wait here. Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, rising to his feet with a heavy groan at the beginnings of what was sure to be arthritis in his knees. “Get you warmed up and something to eat. You need to keep your strength up. You’re eating for two, dear.”

Belle nodded numbly upon hearing Monsieur Gold’s words, knowing this strange but endearing man, Rumple, was right. The little babe growing inside her belly was currently the only thing keeping her alive, giving her that push to continue living. The storm in her mind raged war.

If Quasi was dead, then she would be forced to raise Gaston’s child on her own. And at that…she had no idea how to feel. She blinked owlishly up at Rumple when she heard the man cough lightly once to clear his throat as much to announce that he was eager to be in out of the cold, his hand outstretched to help Belle get to her feet.

Seeing no other choice, she accepted and allowed the man once she was standing alongside him to take her arm.

Her mind was wracked with several thoughts, and none of them pleasant as Rumple ushered her through the wide double oak cathedral doors, and she was heralded with a gust of warmth that Belle supposed ought to make her feel better, but instead only made her feel even colder.

Would she be able to love this child, knowing it was Gaston’s? Forgetting about the roots and circumstances that had brought it into this world, able to forgive the father? Would she be able to accept it as her own flesh and blood? And Quasi, if he were even still _alive_ , would he truly love and cherish it as his own.

 _But it will be your blood_ , her conscience reminded herself as she allowed Gold to lead her towards what appeared to be the kitchens, no doubt to insist that she try to force her stomach to keep something down. _It will be yours to love and it will love you unconditionally back, without any distrust or hate. Just love._

She uttered a short laugh as she felt her eyes start to water, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Rumple, sadly. He quirked a brow at Belle, waiting for her to elaborate. She swallowed down hard, unable to bear listening to any more pleas or words of sympathies from this man, for which at this time she harbored little faith.

She did not allow Rumple to speak the words.

“My husband is not coming _back_ , monsieur. I fear that he and the others are _dead_.” Belle shook her head numbly, her chest hollowing and her throat constricting.

Rumpelstiltskin desperately searched the young woman’s dark brown eyes that were a different hue than that of his Belle’s, but deeply unsettling in her unspoken grief, in the words that the brunette simply would not say.

The deep-rooted pain and grief shown in the woman’s sad eyes. Rumple had sworn the minute he had set foot onto this land’s soil in this time period that he would not allow himself to become emotionally attached to any of them, should he happen to encounter someone on accident.

And now, _damn_ Agathe and her insistence that he help her, that she could not do this all on her own, he found himself doing exactly what he’d sworn _not_ to do!

His heart broke for her, thinking that were his Belle here and facing a similar situation, his wife would probably be of a similar mindset, and considering how many times the two of them had lost one another and found each other over again, he could not fault this one for thinking her husband to be dead, that the man wasn’t returning to her.

At what point did a person’s hope fail them? As Rumple took advantage of the lingering silence as the pair stood outside the kitchens of the cathedral, he paused, studying her. Belle Dupont was quite good at hiding her sorrow, but Rumple was easy to detect the dutiful façade.

The lie was practically brimming in her umber irises, which were glimmering with unshed moisture, fresh tears.

Rumple parted his lips open slightly to speak, and then promptly closed it again, afraid if he spent too much time in this woman’s company, he would accidentally let something slip, something he feared he could not reveal.

And yet…he knew that there were no other souls wandering about the cathedral at this late hour that was up, so he knew the unpleasant task was befallen to him.

“Please,” he said hopefully in what he prayed was a courteous-enough-sounding voice. “Would you do the honor of taking some tea with me up in your…your loft? I think a nice spot of tea would do you wonders, milady,” he asked, reaching and guiding Belle’s arms back down the hallway from which they came, though not before ducking into the kitchens and grabbing a baguette loaf and the same wedge of Brie cheese LeFou had tried unsuccessfully to get Belle to eat earlier, to no avail, before she could protest, he led her up the stone stairwell, his legs and joints screaming at the fact of climbing so many stairs.

Belle could not help but allow the small half-smile that flitted across her face as the man grumbled darkly under his breath once they reached the topmost mezzanine of her and Quasi’s bell tower loft, the poor man clutching at a stitch in his side while he heaved to catch his breaths.

“Here,” she murmured thoughtfully, pulling up the chair that Quasi would sit in sometimes while he worked on one of his carvings, noticing Rumple look around the simplistic beauty of the man’s tower loft with an expression akin to awe, despite his breathlessness. She found the sudden display so charming that Belle wasn’t even aware that a true, genuine smile had found her face as she silently regarded this strange but truly endearing man while she worked at preparing a cup of tea for them both.

Rumple looked up after a moment or two of staring at the dozens of brass and iron bells above their heads and turned red when he noticed Belle staring at him quizzically.

Suddenly, Belle was quite embarrassed and unaccustomed to hosting a guest in Quasi’s tower and was not sure what her husband would think if he were here.

“O—oh,” she squeaked. “I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered, lowering her lashes as she turned away for a moment to prepare the tea, rummaging on the same shelf that Quasi kept his cutleries and chalices. She grimaced as she looked at one of the teacups.

It was chipped, but it would have to do.

“I—I hope you don’t mind drinking out of this,” she sighed, shooting Monsieur Gold an apologetic and furtive, guilty look with her eyes as she turned around, clutching the tea tray in her hands, and silently handed him the chipped cup. “It’s chipped, but it’s still good enough to drink from,” she said, her blush intensifying.

Belle paused as she watched Rumple clasp his hands tenderly around the chipped teacup, inspecting it carefully. “It’s perfect,” he murmured, lowering his voice an octave so it was more subdued. He was silent for a moment, lost in a memory of his time with _his_ Belle, _his_ wife, before he forced his mind to return to help her.

He could not imagine the unimaginable horrors that this young woman had suffered. To be raped over and over again by a man whom she had married for convenience, whom she did not love. A man who brutally murdered her father in cold blood in front of her eyes as a form of punishment when she could not take the abuse anymore.

Now pregnant with the bastard’s child. He marveled at the young woman’s courage. Now he knew where his Belle got it from. He _almost_ smiled but restrained himself.

“It _sickens_ me, milady, to think what Dupont put you through,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He did not bother to point out that he knew Belle wasn’t sleeping. The purple bags clinging under her eyes were evidence enough.

Belle ducked her head, allowing a dark curl to tumble in front of her face, effectively shielding her expression from Monsieur Gold. She fought to find her voice, but it simply would not come. She felt like the siren of the sea in one of her fantasy stories where the mermaid traded her voice in exchange to become human. She could not speak. Instead, she studied her trembling, slender fingers, which were folded into her lap. The pads of her right hand’s fingers ghosted over her gold wedding ring.

An anguished frown twisted and contorted her features. A nod of her head was all that she could manage.

“I know it must be painful for you, Belle, to wait here and suffer the ambiguity of not knowing what’s happening. But…” he paused, unsure of how much to reveal, and finally decided on a partial truth. “Your husband is fine. You must believe me when I tell you he is going to come back, though it may not be in the way that you expect. You must not allow your faith and love in your husband to leave you so soon. He loves you. Your husband always will. And you will too, I think. And when he comes back…” Again, he paused, wracking his brain. “You may find yourself _surprised_ …he will be…much changed, mademoiselle, and for the better, I’m sure.” Rumple let his voice trail off, fading.

He looked towards Belle earnestly, hoping to lighten the burden the young mademoiselle carried on herself. Rumple pressed on, seeing the pained expression flit across Belle’s features that suggested she doubted his words.

“He meant to protect you by leaving you behind. He made the right decision. Any man with a good head on his shoulders would have done the same. There is nothing, were you there, milady, that you could have done to help. Your love will not allow anything to stand in his way of returning to your side.” He gave the girl a confident smile. Rumple read the sorrowful expression on Belle’s face and wanted to reassure the young woman that her fears were unfounded. “You have given your husband any and all that he could ever possibly want, my dear. Love, caring, compassion, honor, strength. A loving wife. A family of his own to provide for and care for. He knows the love of a good woman. He’ll have a son or daughter to maintain the legacy. And…” He paused, closing his eyes to see if he could maintain contact with either Regina or Agathe.

He was long overdue for an update. And he was met with his probing with nothing but silence from both girls.

 _Nothing_. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to growl in frustration, and carded his fingers through his thick tuft of short salt and pepper hair. _Damn you, curse these witches, both of them_ , Gold thought angrily, hoping his annoyance didn’t show on his face to the mademoiselle.

Belle swallowed as her throat hollowed and constricted, trying her hardest to catch her breaths as she tried (and ultimately failed) to stifle the sobs in her throat.

She envisioned whatever hellish torment Quasi and her friends were suffering at whatever war was being waged on the Prince’s castle, and all because of her. In a way, she and her husband had both been prisoners of both Frollo, and now Gaston’s family, what little of the Dupont family name was left lingered on in Gaston’s brothers.

Belle paused to recollect on feeling the sweet sensations of passion shared during the night behind closed doors.

She felt his love for her in every one of his gentle caresses, his kisses, how he would get this twinkle in his eyes. It exuded from the man’s every pore as she felt it.

Belle felt something within her shift and give way as she silently looked at Rumple, studying the older man’s face. He blushed and she was surprised when he practically shoved a plate bearing a small chunk of the baguette loaf and a wedge of the cheese.

“You need to eat better, Belle, now that you’re feeding two people, dearie,” Rumple urged, a note of urgency in his quiet Scottish lilt.

She nodded, ripping off a small bite of the bread with trembling fingers and popping it into her mouth, swallowing it down with a swig of tea. Her walls were crumbling steadfast before his very eyes, Rumple could see it. He pressed forward, desperate to make the girl see sense.

“Your husband loves you, dear Belle.” He smiled. “He loves you in so many ways in which I don’t think he’s ever known before. And trust me, love, I know a thing or two about a beauty-loving a monster.” His voice was wistful, reminiscent, and somewhat saddened, she noticed.

“Do you have any family?” Belle asked, hoping she wasn’t prying, though she’d noticed the gold band on his ring finger and had rightfully guessed Gold was married.

He nodded, almost eagerly, a faraway glint in his eyes. “A lovely wife. A beauty, much like yourself. You and she are…a lot alike. We have a son. Gideon. We’ve raised him well,” he murmured, his tone quiet and rather thoughtful.

“Gideon…” She tested the name as it rolled off her tongue. “I like it,” Belle smiled, her hand drifting to settle over her own stomach. Rumple noticed and smirked a bit.

“Yes, yes, dearie, but you’ll have to choose your _own_ name for _your_ babe. Gideon is already _taken_ ,” he added, puffing out his chest slightly with pride, his tone smug. Sensing Belle’s resolve to leave her safe sanctuary here in the cathedral the longer he stayed and talked with her, he continued. “Your husband is his true self with you, my dear. Would you still love him if he were…if were, well…”

“ _Normal_?” Belle answered, a note of bitterness in her voice.

Rumple was quiet for a moment, a pensive, somber expression on his lined and slightly reddened face. He compensated for the sudden silence between them by taking a sip of tea, tenderly holding onto the chipped china tea mug as though merely setting it down would cause it to crack and break. Belle was touched by Gold’s gentleness.

“Yes.” It was all he could say. He was curious to find out for himself, how the boy’s wife would answer his query.

Belle paused for a moment, chewing on the wall of her mouth. She recognized that her relationship with Quasi, while unorthodox in every sense of the word, was unique, and she’d not trade a minute of their time together for a thing and that she’d love the man, just as she would grow to love the babe that was growing within her, no matter what he was or wasn’t, and that pertained to his looks.

“I would,” she responded, choosing her words slowly and carefully. “No matter what he looks like. I did not fall in love with my husband, monsieur, for his looks, though in my eyes, he is beautiful. No.” Belle shook her head, her curls bouncing as she did so. “I fell in love with his _heart_.”

Rumple quickly nodded his agreement, still holding the chipped teacup relatively close to his chest, almost to his heart, Belle noticed. She was briefly of a mind to let him take it if he was growing so fond of the teacup, then.

“He is his true self around you, Belle. The man he was always meant to be that his master did not allow him to become until afterward. Perhaps for the first time in his life,” Rumple continued, a note of pride in his voice just now. “Please. I _beg_ of you. Do not leave Notre Dame. This place is your home. I will look after you until he returns. Your husband will return to you, Belle. I promise you this.”

Belle fell silent for a moment, biting down on her bottom lip as she mulled over the Scottish man’s words in her mind, letting them wash over her like water over rocks.

She felt her heart so filled with love, not just for Quasi, but Darius and Madellaine too, she thought she might just well burst, that her heart would grow wings and fly right out of her chest if she couldn’t manage to tamper down the relentless beating and thundering in her chest.

Belle let out a tired sigh. Perhaps she was finally truly accepting Quasi’s love for her and recognizing that he had only been trying to protect her by sending her back.

“Very well.” She smiled upon hearing Monsieur Gold emanate a tense but relieved exhale through his nose beside her as she turned her head to the side to smile at him. “I’ll wait. For now,” she agreed, scooting her chair a little bit closer, not wanting to be alone up here at night.

Rumple’s lips curled upwards into a soft smile, though the man said nothing, Belle could see it in his eyes. The way he looked at her as if the older man were trying to tell her that he couldn’t be more pleased with her choice.

That this…this was her home. And she would wait.

Because she loved him.


	72. A Place to Heal

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE**

Adam thought death should have been much more painful than this. But then again, he was confident wherever he was, he was well and far away from Heaven.

The darkness around him and Maria’s bodies slowly began to lift. He couldn’t tell for sure if he was dead, or _what_ had happened, where it was that he was laying down.

But the first thing that told Adam he was alive was the sound of what sounded like rubble, bricks being pulled from somewhere, and slowly but surely, the almost-unbearable weight that was crushing against his chest lifted. All too soon, Adam was aware of the brutal pains, searing white-hot blinding agony, that tormented his body.

He hoped Maria couldn’t feel it too, and that the others, Barret, his lady love, Madellaine, were safe. And to a lesser extent, Belle’s husband, but for now, his only concern was Maria. Though when he tried to even twitch his fingers to see if they still worked, the only thing Adam succeeded in doing was sending explosions of pain through his broken body.

Perhaps this was what the seven layers of Hell felt like. Adam knew better than most that he deserved such an eternity of torture, and he thought he could abide this hell and pain and suffering much more so than he could than the pain he had inflicted on Maria for years.

Adam thought it almost bizarre how it was not the lady Belle who should hover in his thoughts while he remained on the brink of death itself if he wasn’t already dead and in some hellish place. She was, after all, the cause of the mess he had gotten himself into, his servants, and Maria. He’d once thought Belle the answer to his problems, perhaps even his soulmate. But he’d been wrong.

No. His thoughts were on Maria. Maria de Barreau had tried. She had tried to make Adam believe that he was better than the monster his father had a hand in creating.

She’d seen some small spark of hope that had nestled within him and tried to bring it out of him, to coax him to be a better man, and when _that_ didn’t work, she had changed her own personality to better match Adam’s.

Now, he was little more than a shell of the man he used to be, clinging to the lifeless body of the only woman in all of Paris, maybe even all of Europe, who understood.

Lost under the rubble of the remnants of his castle, there had been an explosion. Fragments of what had happened were slowly starting to return to him.

The last he remembered before the whole foundation came literally crashing down on him was moving as fast as he could to shield Maria’s body. As the stones fell on him, he was hardly aware he’d shed a tear for the pain and suffering he’d inflicted not just on Maria, but on so many. Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, Belle, old Cogsworth…

The only guilt his mind could assuage him even in death was that he’d saved Maria from _himself_ then.

He didn’t care if his crumbling castle burying him underneath the rubble took his wretched, miserable life.

 _Let it_. Without Maria, there was no reason left at all. Adam closed his eyes and allowed himself to wallow in his own suffering and torment, aching for Madellaine’s sister.

It was only Maria’s memory that would be of comfort to him now in this hellish nightmare of a place.

For the few precious moments, his mind would allow, he conjured a phantasm of her in his mind, her sweet face.

Adam’s hoarse throat attempted to cry out the moment a vicious, blinding white light burned itself into his retinas behind his closed eyelids.

It was dim like a mere candle flickering but agonizing for the broken Prince, nonetheless. It very nearly blinded him. The air shocked his beseeching lungs as he felt the crushing weight lifted from him, and the force of the unexpected movement caused his blue eyes to fling wide open in shock and awe.

The darkness was gone. He now found himself staring up into the faces of that accursed wretch from Notre Dame’s bell towers and the Captain of the King’s guard, both of whom were looking at him with concern.

“ _That’s it_ ,” came Captain de Chateaupers’ voice from deep beyond the gloom, barely penetrating the haze that stretched over Adam’s murky perception of the dark world. “ _Fight it, Highness. Come back to us_ ,” he barked in a rough voice from somewhere that Adam could not see Phoebus.

The Prince heard the golden-haired archer again. That meant that he was not dead. He was alive. And Maria, oh, god, maybe Maria was alive too. And the others, then?

Exhausted, he couldn’t fight anymore. He knew he had to be alive, but if Maria was dead, he’d have no reason.

 _Just let me lay here and bleed to death, it’ll be good for me_ , he thought, the edges of his eyes pricking with tears despite his best efforts to quell them back. He let himself go in a sense of defeat. Suddenly, Adam wished for nothing more than to fall back into this dark chasm, if only to escape the pain of not having Maria de Barreau by his side.

Adam allowed his body to relax, his mind to drift into the void once more, his only comfort was holding her hand.

As precious, sweet sleep found the Prince once more, under the watchful and vigilant eye of Darius Barret, Captain Phoebus, Notre Dame’s bell ringer, between the three of them, with a few of the Prince’s men, Cogsworth and Lumiere among them, they tried their hardest to lift the broken man and lifeless body of Maria de Barreau to take him to a waiting carriage, where the driver was given orders by a strange cloaked woman claiming she could save them to escort them to the one place in all of Paris where the Prince and the rest would be safe: Notre Dame.

* * *

Madellaine felt as though horrible darkness were closing in around her, pulling her underneath a sweeping torrent. She’d fought so hard, worked so hard to make a decent life for herself. Part of her wanted to let go, to sink into this sweet calming abyss of nothing and be carried away by its currents. But even as her mind and body begged for sweet relief, for Death to come and take her in his arms like an old friend, she knew she couldn’t give up. Not with Darius by her side. The man was the only good thing in her life.

But still, her strength was failing her, with so far left to go. This wasn’t going to be an easy recovery, but she clung to the man’s hand with all her strength. She’d known pain throughout her life yes, but nothing quite so excruciating like this. This agony was by far perhaps the worst sensation the young blonde thief had ever felt at all.

Madellaine could feel the tempered strength of Darius’s hand grasping her own, unswerving in his grip.

There was no time to wonder what was happening, but she could sense the handsome priest of Notre Dame leaning in as close as he could to her, wherever they were, willing his strength into her, the man’s blue eyes shimmering and his face taut and drawn with worry. Darius’s words echoed in her eardrums, compelling her to listen. “ _…to me…come back to me, love. Wake up, sweetheart. I’m right here. I know it hurts but look at me_.”

Madellaine could hear Darius’s words of encouragement as another painful spasm wracked her body, a reaction she was sure to have been beaten nearly within an inch of her life. Someone else, she could have sworn she heard Darius call the lady Mrs. Potts, worked to press the soothing coolness of a damp cloth around her bruises that littered her ashen and clammy features then. It seemed even a struggle to open her eyes.

Wherever Darius was taking her, it was _cold_. Tendrils of ice swirled within her veins, chilling her insides, rendering her frozen.

_That’s it, Lena…breathe, Madellaine, just breathe…_

She tried, feeling a hoarse little pained gasp caress her throat. Calloused, strong hands steadied either side of her face, the man’s thumbs sweeping off stray wisps of blonde hair clung from her cheeks, matted, and tangled with dried congealed blood. And red. Red droplets of blood trickling down from his face and down onto her cheeks.

“ _Come back…to me…wake up, sweetheart_. _Please_.”

His words gave Madellaine pause. She’d never heard a man sound so desperate, so broken before. It unnerved her. Now, it sounded like he was begging him, almost to the point of tears. Wait a minute. Was he…was he… _crying_?!? It was the use of the word ‘ _please’_ that did it.

Darius Barret’s ragged voice was a fire that ignited a spark of flame, a burning flame of her love within the confines of her chest. Her chest started to heave and gasp for air and Madellaine opened her lips to suck in air like a newborn babe taking its first breath of life. She coughed and turned her head to the side as her lungs took in air.

Her blue eyes flung wide open until ice met ice, and she was staring into the moisture-filled pale blue irises of Darius, along with Mrs. Potts, both of whom were looking down at her with no small measure of worry and concern.

Darius exhaled a tense breath of relief, looking close to tears at seeing Madellaine wake up. He patted her forehead gingerly, shushing her from the chaos she’d woken up to. Their faces were barely inches from one another, and she let out a pained cry as she felt a horrible jostling as whatever they were seated on gave a resounding lurch forward. It took her a moment to realize the three of them were seated in a horrible-looking black iron carriage.

Darius had barely managed to utter two syllables when Madellaine burst into a shrill, sharp, pained scream.

“Damn…shh, Madellaine, love, don’t! Don’t move, you’re _hurt_!” he swore through gritted teeth, holding onto the girl’s wrists, having quite forgotten to tell her about half of her fibula bone jutting out from her leg.

The halves were going to have to be met. The stuck-out bone was going to have to be pushed hard below the kneecap, otherwise, it would not heal on its own.

He had no time to wait for a doctor to arrive once they made their way back to the church. Quasi had chosen to ride in the second carriage with Madellaine’s sister and the Prince and Lumiere, sensing Darius wanted the time alone with Madellaine, leaving the priest and the blonde with Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts, and of course, the driver of the carriage upfront.

Madellaine sniffled, breathing as fast as her beseeching lungs would command her. “Fix it, Darius.”

A fearful, hesitant look flitted across his pale features, making the man looked almost peaky in his appearance. “Madellaine—” he started to say worriedly but she abruptly cut him off before he could say anything else.

“Just bloody _fix_ it!” she shouted hoarsely in tears, her pain dominating her logic and reason for the minute. She sighed. “ _Please_ ,” she begged, trying a softer approach. “I—I’ve been through _worse_. You’ve done this before, yes?”

The nervous laugh that Darius allowed to escape from the back of his throat did not exactly tamper the girl’s anxiety as his face turned an interesting shade of pale green. “No.” Darius shrugged, watching as a lump bobbed down Madellaine’s slim neck, but before she could protest, she felt Darius’s hands quickly grab the fracture and do what needed to be done, hearing the crunching of broken bone forced to snap closed and moved it back into place.

The gesture was quick and rattled Madellaine’s body in a mortifying and explosive, blinding-white pain that temporarily blinded her as she squeezed her eyes shut.

And Darius and Mrs. Potts and old Cogsworth heard the loudest, tortured stricken _scream_ emitted from the young woman that caused the fine hairs on the backs of their necks to stand upright on end. Darius moved quickly to dig her head beneath his jaw and suffered the muffled, torturous screams as she clawed feebly at Darius’s arms, leaving angry red lines on his firm skin. If it weren’t for her injured leg, Darius was quite confident Madellaine would have bloody kicked him to the next city over in her pains.

“Where…” she managed to gasp out in heaving, pain-filled breaths as her vision slowly but surely returned to her as Madellaine blinked rapidly to clear her line of sight of the creeping black dots that were threatening to blind her.

Darius nodded his head, sensing what she was trying to ask. “I’m taking you back to the cathedral, love. It’s the safest place for all of us right now. You need to let yourself heal. I’m going to look after you,” he murmured, lowering his head down and placing a gentle kiss upon her lips.

She shivered, but not with the cold, the tingling sensation of Darius’s lips on hers lingered even after he pulled away. She watched him with regret. There was a minuscule part of her that caused Madellaine to wish Darius had not come after her, that the man would have stayed away, she’d not wished for him to see her like this.

She felt the last of her strength failing her. She couldn’t even summon the courage, much less the fortitude to tell Darius that she thought she was beginning to love him. Darius watched in abject horror at the dwindling life force before his eyes and was powerless to help her until they reached the cathedral, which thankfully, he could tell they were close, but time was not on Madellaine’s side now.

“Madellaine!” he shouted, trying to will the resolve to fight and live back into his lover’s chest, but she did not respond.

All she could manage was to exhale an exhausted, shuddering long breath as her eyes, which never left Darius’s, fluttered a couple of times before slowly falling shut. She heard Darius scream her name before everything went black and she slipped into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The carriage came a lurching stop in front of the steps of Notre Dame de Paris. As Darius clambered out, Madellaine in his arms bridal style, her head lolled back against the crook of his elbow, he barely had time to register Quasi run to his wife, who’d been waiting on the steps alongside Monsieur Gold, who looked relieved to see all of them.

As the drivers hopped down from the carriage to tend to the horses and help where they could, Darius heard the familiar calm tone of the cloaked woman who merely called herself Agathe, who claimed she could save their lives, but she needed space to work and had not much time.

“Try not to move them much or those two will go into shock,” Agathe said firmly, lowering the hood of her cloak and brushing her strawberry blonde curls off her shoulders, though she was looking visibly shaken as she looked towards Maria’s lifeless body and that of the Prince.

As Darius bolted towards the front steps of the cathedral, Madellaine still in his arms as he followed Agathe up to Quasi’s tower loft that would take them to the south tower’s spare room he could allow Madellaine to heal in, he barely caught sight of the look of astonishment plastered on Belle’s face upon seeing Agathe and Rumple haul the Prince’s now-reverted-human body upstairs, too.

“What…?” she started to ask, looking as though she had a dozen questions burning on the tip of her tongue, just begging to be asked, but Belle’s voice trailed off as she gave her head a curt shake to clear her mind.

“Belle, I will need your help, milady,” Agathe called out sharply behind her shoulder, quickly gaining the bell ringer’s wife’s attention as Quasi trailed protectively behind. “If you could send for one of the nuns to boil some oak leaves, we can stave off any infection they might have.”

Belle was looking quite flustered and shocked, but less so than Darius and the others expected her to be. the young woman offered a quick nod of her head and disappeared down the stairwell, saying she would hurry.

Quasi hesitated, chewing on the wall of his mouth, before following his wife, but not before pausing at the top of the mezzanine and barking orders to Agathe to take the Prince, Maria, and Madellaine, all to the south tower loft.

He shot a sympathetic, saddened look towards Darius, whom it barely registered with, as his attention was solely fixated on the young, fading woman in his arms.

Darius bolted forward once they reached the same spare room that Darius had let Madellaine stay the night in when he’d mended her broken wrist from when Clopin had harmed her and gingerly set her down on the cot shoved up against the wall, hoping a softer surface would help her.

“So?” he growled, pacing the room restlessly as he stepped back while Agathe perched herself at the edge of the cot’s makeshift mattress and set to work examining Madellaine. Another of this woman’s friends, Regina, whom Darius hadn’t even seen climb into the other carriage, had said she would work on the Prince and Madellaine’s sister.

“One moment, please, monsieur, grant me this,” was the only curt and clipped reply that the strange woman offered him, to which Darius could only respond by letting out a noise that could only be described as a growl of frustration and turning to look towards the doorway, half expecting to see Quasimodo or Belle poke their heads in through the doorway, but they did not come.

It didn’t stop Darius from worrying, because the simple fact of the matter remained that the woman he loved didn’t look well at all and looked already to be on the brink of death itself.

It seemed a moment before the beautiful, cloaked woman spoke and when she turned her gaze to Darius, her gaze was solemn and somber. “Your love is lucky to be _alive_ , monsieur,” she began. “Her leg will need tending to, and there is a possibility she may develop a fever over the next few days. Nothing is certain, but she will be just fine.”

“Oh, thank God,” he groaned, feeling the strength give out, and before Agathe could stop him, he rushed towards the edge of the bed and perched himself at the edge of the mattress. “I—I’d like to stay with her,” he said.

Agathe offered a brief dip of her head of acknowledgment as she clasped her fingers together. “I will go down to the kitchens and ask one of the nuns to make a good chicken broth. I’d say a little of that will go a long way to aid her recovery. I’ll give you a moment, dear.”

She politely excused herself, mumbling under her breath, and gingerly closed the door behind her without a word or a second glance back over her shoulder at Darius.

The heavy silence between the two filled the room, though Darius practically jumped out of his skin, a hand clutching onto the fabric of his jerkin and linen undershirt as her sweet voice mumbled something in her sleep as she turned her head to the side but did not wake up at all.

"…not…your…fault…don't…go…" Darius blinked and felt his heart nearly come to a stop right there on the spot at the amount of fear laced in her tired voice.

Though she still did not wake from sleep. She was…afraid he would leave her! Darius had no intention of leaving her alone, not after her sister had just died one of the worst possible deaths imaginable. She needed to know that he was right here where he was sitting.

That he wasn’t anywhere else. Feeling the small spark of hope continue to grow and spread throughout his chest as a spiraling warmth of relief flooded his system, he was sure slick tears would slip from his eyes at any moment, though this time, as he felt the wetness begin to sting and prick at the corners of his vision, he didn't stop it.

He was just going to have to make Madellaine see that he would always be here for her and that Darius was going to be the first thing Madellaine saw when she woke up later. Darius decided that he would be here. Just for her. "Don't worry, love," Darius whispered into the shell of her ear as he carefully leaned over from his spot and gently pressed his lips to hers. "I won't leave you, sweetheart. I'm going to be here when you wake up. I promise."

A tiny smile ghosted across his features as he could have sworn Madellaine smiled back at him in the throes of her sleep, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly in sleep as she nestled and burrowed deeper into the pillow and blankets. Once he was confident she wasn't going to wake prematurely from much-needed sleep, he leaned back in a nearby chair that he didn’t hesitate to drag close to her bedside, folding his arms across his chest, keeping his head tilted towards his love’s sleeping, silent form.

No matter what happened, he was going to be here for her when she woke up. He'd promised her.

And his time, he vowed to keep that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might be wondering why Agathe and Regina don't just snap their fingers and poof! they're all healed. Well, because during these times, witchcraft was viewed as unholy, with those suspected of being burnt at the stake or subject to even worse punishments/death sentences. Not that Regina and Rumple and Agathe would ever LET themselves be caught, but I feel like it's more for the sake of appearances that they're sort of being forced to heal them 'the slow way.' Granted, magic IS still used, but it's a much slower process that I had envisioned mostly to help our three magic users keep their cover.


	73. A Moment Alone

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO**

Belle stood numbly in their tower loft, trying, and feeling like she was failing to collect her thoughts. The sun had fully gone down by this point, and she was quite sure she had never seen the cathedral this busy with activity. The few servants that hadn’t been killed in the explosion of the castle, she learned in a rushed explanation from none other than Monsieur Cogsworth, who she paused on his third trip down the stairwell (much to his chagrin) to fetch fresh water and rags to help attend to the Prince’s wounds, were being granted temporary sanctuary by the Archdeacon and allowed to remain in the spare cloister cells, alongside Agathe, Rumple, and a new woman whom Belle had only caught glimpses of here and here, but identified herself as Regina. Something about that one struck her as pretentious and off, so Belle kept a distance.

Belle had adamantly asked more than once if they needed help, but any time she did, she was advised to rest, that in her current state, she would only get in the way. The Prince was no longer in a critical state and would recover, but it was Maria that Agathe and Regina were having trouble reviving, from the sounds of the gossip circulating.

The bell ringer’s wife could not quite shake the immense cold dread from her senses, which now succeeded in winding its icy tendrils around the column of her throat and her heart, threatening to squeeze the life out of her.

So engrossed in her own thoughts, she did not notice her husband, silently watching her from a distance in the shadows, alongside none other than Monsieur Gold, who quickly informed Quasi that his first name was Rumple. Quasi crinkled his brow at such an unusual name, though quickly brushed it off.

He supposed he was one to talk, just look at _him_. “How is my wife?” Quasi begged, his voice cracking and practically breaking with his emotions.

“She has not ventured far, monsieur,” Rumple reported, his face falling a little as he recollected their conversation earlier over tea when he’d done his best to offer solace. The lady Belle had insisted he keep the chipped teacup and refused to take no for an answer. He tucked it away safely inside his cloak pocket with the intent to magic it back to his and Belle’s cottage at the first opportunity. It would be a story to tell _his_ lovely wife later.

Quasi nodded his silent gratitude and strode towards his wife, who was pensively resting near the giant stained-glass Rose window, her neck craning upward to look at its splendorous beauty as it cast brilliant hues of multi-colored light throughout the cathedral. He was inexplicably and suddenly struck with an immense wave of abject fear.

He and Belle had spoken little since his return to the cathedral, though with everything going on surrounding the unknown of the Prince, Maria, and Madellaine’s injuries, he had not had an opportunity to make amends with her. He was uncertain what reception she would grant him. With his heart in his throat, he calmly approached, not wishing to alarm her, but at the same time, wanting to make his presence known to Belle. Belle’s guilt over the way the two of them had parted threatened to consume her. How she wished she’d been able to bid Quasi a proper goodbye, to let him leave her with a loving kiss and a smile of hopefulness that her love would return to be by her side.

Instead, she had projected a poisonous hatred at her husband who only had the best interests of their friends at heart. How wrong Belle had been in her anger and rage.

Quasi had done what he had sworn he would set out to do. He’d gone to help them all and had brought them back. For her. For them. But now, she couldn’t help but feel more than a little terrified for the life of the man who’d given her such reassurance and security in her life when she had otherwise known none of it. What of Gaston’s brothers? What of Laurent? Was Laurent still alive? How long would it be before he would come to try to claim her?

As Belle fought against the wretched, salty briny liquid that stung and blurred the edges of her vision, she heard her husband’s tenor-like voice, speaking to her now. The voice was nearly a susurration of a whisper, coming from directly behind her, and the tempered grip of the man’s gloved hand on her right shoulder was _very_ real.

Quasi’s voice was faint, rough around the edges, choking, and seeming to crack with tears like the very same ones she was desperately fighting against, not wanting the wretched little droplets to slide down her face.

For a split second, Belle thought it was Rumple, or even Lumiere or LeFou, but no. The voice was entirely too familiar and dear to her heart to belong to anyone but him.

She would know Quasi’s voice anywhere.

“My love,” Quasi breathed, shocked at the realization that he was looking upon her once more, when back at the castle when it had fallen under siege to the Dupont’s, he’d been of the staunch, firm belief that he would not make it out alive. Quasi could barely move, his boots planted firmly onto the black and white checkered tile beneath his feet.

Belle also froze, unknowingly copying Quasi’s movements. She was terrified beyond belief that with even the slightest turn of her heel or twitch of some body part or other, this phantasm her mind created would disappear.

Belle gently fluttered her eyelids closed, savoring the musical tones of the man’s tenor-like voice, relishing the echo in her mind. Surely, this could not just be a dream? She swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat. Belle didn’t think she could take it if this were just her overactive imagination playing a sport of her mind now.

Quasi chewed on the wall of his mouth as he took a timid step closer towards Belle to bridge off the almost unbearable gap of space that now existed between the two of them. He was momentarily afraid that if he removed his ironclad grip from her shoulder, Belle would vanish into thin air and he would never see his pregnant wife again.

The moment Belle did not immediately turn on her heel to face him, Notre Dame’s bell ringer felt his heart plummet to the pit of his churning stomach as a coil in his gut painfully twisted. At first, he believed her lack of action to be because she was still furious with him for leaving her, but then he could see his wife was almost holding her breath and shaking. Maybe she was just as nervous, too.

“Why won’t you turn, Belle? Please look at me,” Quasi implored her softly, his fingertips twitching in his gloves as he yearned to hold his wife close to his chest.

“Because I…” Her voice cracked and faltered as she paused to swallow past a growing lump in her throat as her tears threatened to betray her. At last, after a moment or two of attempting to compose herself, Belle found her voice again. “I’m afraid that if I _do_ , you—you won’t be here, love.”

He almost laughed at that but resisted the urge. “Won’t you try it?” he begged. Belle paused, able to sense the love in the man’s quiet, reserved voice, and somehow, just hearing and processing his words gave her strength.

Belle let out a long, drawn-out exhale to bolster her courage as she deliberately moved cautiously and slowly on her heels, turning around to face her husband. She dreaded finding absolutely nothing in her husband’s stead and no one in her line of sight, her mind sending her insane.

She let out a sharp breath of cold air when she took in the sight of her husband, at last, standing almost close enough so the tip of his nose touched hers, very much alive and healthy, and aside from a few scrapes and bruises, Quasi seemed relatively unharmed. His glistening pale blue irises filled to the brim with unshed tears beseeched Belle to find it within her heart to forgive him, not realizing at all that his wife no longer had a need to.

The moment she had finished her cup of tea in the tower loft alongside Rumple, her anger with Quasi had subsided. He’d come back to her, just like he promised. Unable to bear the distance any longer, the pair rushed into each other’s arms, their brings mingling in joyous laughter that for Belle’s part turned into a half-choked pitiful sob as she swallowed a lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Belle sobbed into the man’s neck when Quasi broke apart from their embrace. “I—I shouldn’t have treated you so _horribly_ when you went back, Quasi. I—I’ve regretted my behavior ever since. I did not mean what I said,” Belle choked, flicking away a stray tear that escaped from her lids as she reluctantly pulled apart and back to study her husband’s face. “I should have had more faith in you. I should have understood, sweetheart.” Belle nervously raised her eyes to his. “I should have kissed you,” she whispered, her tone hushed and remorseful.

Quasi shook his head lightly to himself as he brought his gloved hand up to caress her tear-stricken cheeks. “What are you _waiting_ for?” he asked her, a slight teasing lilt to his quiet voice. “Kiss me now, Belle,” Quasi teased.

Belle eagerly obliged his desperate plea and melted into his embrace, not wanting her husband to let him go, though she smiled into his kiss as she felt one of his hands drift and settle over her stomach as he pulled apart for air.

“The babe is fine, and so am I, beloved, I would _tell_ you if I _wasn’t_ , Quasi,” she whispered, as if able to sense Quasi’s worry as she noticed how his brows came together.

Quasi nodded, a brief incline of his head, though it did nothing to ease the worry still wrought over his features, and before she could say anything else, stole another brief kiss from her before he put one hand on the small of her back and guided her towards one of the pews that were still leftover from an evening Mass.

“I suppose we’ll have to start thinking of names soon,” he acknowledged earnestly, a note of excitement seeping into his voice at the prospect of naming their child. “Have you thought of any names, my love?” Quasi asked.

Belle nodded. “A few, but that's not important right now, love…to go back as you did, it—it couldn’t have been easy,” she acquiesced quietly as she lifted her fingers as Quasi sat next to her in the pew and slid them along his strong, angular jawline, feeling the stubble from where he’d forgotten to shave a few days ago.

Quasi’s soft smile faltered and he gave his head a curt shake, briefly glancing over his shoulder as he slung his arm around his wife’s shoulder and pulled her close, so her head was allowed to rest in the dip of his left shoulder.

“It wasn’t,” he admitted, still keeping his gaze fixated on the stairwell, for any signs of the same woman who had saved his life in the Wolves’ Woods to emerge from the stairwell and give them news of Madellaine’s condition. He figured their friend was in good condition with a man like Darius at his side, but for now, his only concern was her. “But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere, my love.” As if to emphasize his point, he cupped her chin firmly in his gloved hand and tilted her head, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m right here where I’m sitting, Belle. I’m not anywhere else. Everything’s going to be fine now, you’ll see. I promise,” he whispered lovingly, leaning forward to kiss her temple. He let out a content sigh and rested his head back as he tilted it upright to look at the stained glass art.

“How many more should we have after this one, love?” Belle blurted out, turning her gaze to the side, and giving her husband the best earnest stare, she could manage before dissolving into a giggling fit at his stupefied expression. It took him a second to realize she was playing.

“More?” he feigned disbelief and made an odd little strangled noise at the back of his throat as he felt his hand instinctively drift and settle over her stomach. “We don’t even have one yet, love, and you’re already wanting more?”

Belle looked as innocently as she could into Quasi’s eyes with those wide, brimming, almond-shaped dark eyes of hers that had since taken on a twinkling, playful sheen the moment she posed her question to Notre Dame’s bell ringer. He pretended to consider her request for a moment.

“I think five more ought to suffice, love, don’t you think?” he snorted, finding it difficult not to roll his eyes.

“That sounds about right to me, Quasi,” Belle grinned, teasing with him and content in the outcome of the delivery of her little joke. She let out a content sigh of her own as she rested her head against her lover’s shoulder, safe and secure, feeling confident of their new life together.

Though the moment was quickly interrupted when Rumple came barreling down the tower stairwell and almost succeeded in tripping over his black woolen robes.

Once the tall, slender man had spotted them, he stated that Agathe and Regina’s work was finished, that the Prince and Maria were going to recover, both were sleeping, Madellaine’s leg would heal, in time, but there was a matter of utmost urgency he wished to speak to Darius about, and he thought he might take the news better if Belle were there, as the man considered her very much a good friend.

Stunned, Belle and Quasi exchanged a quizzical look before they rose from the pew in the nave and made to follow Rumple back up the stairwell to the south tower loft. Belle’s mind was racing as she walked.

She wondered what on earth Monsieur Gold could want to talk to Darius about, but judging by the grim look on the older man’s lined, weathered face, it wasn’t good. She could only hope that if she and Quasi were present by the man’s side while Madellaine healed, he would take whatever news Rumple wished to deliver well. She could only pray for it.

The one thought that seeped into her mind like poison as she followed Rumple up the stair loft, was that she hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

Rumple was wearing a rather odd expression as they paused outside the closed wooden door that led to the spare room that Darius had placed Madellaine in to heal.

“What is it?” Belle asked, her tone cautious and guarded as she dared to come closer, the only thing giving her strength enough was the tempered strength of Quasi’s grip on her shoulder, knowing her husband was close by.

Rumple paused, seeming to consider his words before evidently finding his voice and beginning to speak.

“Your friend is rather _distraught_ over the young blonde mademoiselle’s physical condition, to put it lightly. He's...not good company right now, but we've no other choice. His very future depends on that man listening and hearing me out to what I have to say,” he grumbled darkly under his breath, though his kind eyes still looked upon Belle in a rather peculiar fashion. She wondered if the man was still mulling over the details of their conversation in the north bell tower loft an hour or two ago. “Therefore, I think it a safe assumption to say he is not _himself_ at this moment and might be ah…moody. I just thought I should warn you, mademoiselle, my dear.”

“I—I see,” Belle stammered, raising her eyebrows in alarm as she looked at Rumple, not sure what else to say to the man. “W—well, Darius is a good friend of ours. We’ll see if we can get him to calm down and listen to you, and get the rest he needs,” she murmured, fidgeting with her gold wedding band as Rumple nodded, opening the doors.

She allowed herself to slip through the door, hearing it shut behind her as Quasi followed, and then Rumple before approaching the cot where Madellaine lay asleep.

Belle flinched as Darius’s head whiplashed sharply upward to regard Rumple as the man stepped forward, dragging the chair over to sit across the way from Darius.

Judging by the darkening purple bags underneath the poor man’s eyes, it was obvious their handsome soldier boy and now she supposed former priest hadn’t slept at all.

Belle winced, biting down on her bottom lip as she and Quasi lingered in the furthermost corner of the room.

She could already tell this conversation wasn’t going to be a pleasant one, if judging by the dawning look of anger on Darius’s pale features as he glared at Monsieur Gold was anything for the young woman to go off of. But she had promised to stick it out and do what she could.

She could only hope this wasn’t a mistake…


	74. Chasing Pirates

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE**

Darius glowered across the way at Monsieur Gold, thinking this was a highly inappropriate time to be discussing whatever it was Gold wanted to bring up. Neither did he particularly _appreciate_ the older Scottish man bringing Belle and Quasi into the discussion, unless it happened to pertain to them somehow, but right now, the only thing he was focused on was ensuring Madellaine’s swift recovery, and to bloody hell with everything else for the time being. All that mattered was her now.

But he could sense in Gold’s eyes the man was _not_ going to rest until he addressed the matter, so it was with a begrudging reluctance that he allowed the older gentleman to take the seat next to him. It was as if Gold harbored the sixth sense towards his discomfort and growing resentment towards this ‘conversation’.

“I didn’t think this was going to be so _difficult_ ,” he sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his thumb, groaning a bit.

“If you don’t like it, then you can _leave_ ,” Darius snapped, feeling a hot fire seed of anger well within the confines of his chest. “I thought I told you that I would discuss whatever this is with you after Madellaine’s healed, and not a second _before_ , Gold!”

He was not quite shouting at Rumple, but nor was the soon-to-be-former priest particularly pleased with the man, either.

“ _Darius_.” Belle stepped forward, nervously twisting her fingers together and toying with her wedding band, biting down on her bottom lip as she cast a furtive look towards the two men, in the hopes of rectifying the situation and de-escalating the tension. “I—I must admit, that I don’t know what it is he wants to speak to you about, b—but he said that it was urgent, my friend. You should let him _talk_. Just five minutes, sir. That’s _all_ we ask.”

Belle paused and looked across the room at the older man whom she considered very much a friend and she hoped, if things progressed well enough with his and Madellaine’s relationship, in time, that the two of them would be godparents to her baby. It was the burning blue eyes of Darius’s that gave him away to Belle.

His expression hardened from his hard past, Darius’s look always tended to be cynical, closed off, and somewhat disinterested, but right now, the man was the furthest away from that as he could possibly be. Darius was looking rather hesitant as he stared over at the bell ringer’s wife with no small mixture of fear coupled with apprehension. It was as if for a brief moment in time, he’d been transported elsewhere and forgotten who he was.

The burning pale blue of his eyes didn’t seem so cold. Belle smiled at the exchange as she watched the priest’s expression shift as he briefly glanced back towards Madellaine before turning towards Gold and merely grunting wordlessly in response, but he waved a hand as if to say, “Get the bloody hell on with it, then.”

“It’s time that you and I discuss your future, Barret. I can understand that you won’t want to remain a priest the remainder of your days, would you?” Gold scoffed at his own comment and rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “That is no life for a man like you. Or a lass like her,” he added, jerking his head towards Madellaine’s still sleeping form.

She’d not woken up, and Darius hoped it stayed that way, for now at least, until this forced ‘discussion’ of theirs was well over.

“After the time you’ve spent here inside these stone walls, years of your life spent in solitude, running from your dark past, it would be customary to either fully commit to your vows or leave the care of the church. Something tells me Madellaine would have you choose the second option over the first one, yes?” Gold grinned, shooting the priest a Cheshire-Cat-like grin that made him shiver and wait with gritted teeth for the older man to speak.

Darius ran a hand through his thick dark hair and blew out an exasperated, and if he was being honest with himself, annoyed breath. He didn’t want to talk to _anyone_ right now. Not Quasi, not Belle, not Gold. He just wanted…Madellaine. Just _her_.

“What do you _want_?” Darius barked in a hoarse voice, cringing at how raspy his voice sounded. He grunted by way of thanks when Belle strode across the room and handed him a chalice of ice water from the wells outside of the church. “Thanks,” he grumbled, feeling more than a little relieved when Belle cast a furtive glance with her husband, and Belle shot Gold a quizzical glance as Quasi wound an arm around his wife’s waist and cast Darius a warning look, as though silently admonishing the older man who he thought of like an older brother to mind his temper, if not for Monsieur Gold then at least for Madellaine.

Darius shot him a look in return that told him that he would try.

Gold waited until Belle and the bell ringer had left the room, closing the door behind him, their footsteps receding into nothing until he spoke, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward in his chair. “There’s a great deal of _rage_ in you still, boy.”

At this, he snorted, and his eyes took on a glossy sheen, as though remembering something that had happened to him long ago. He mumbled something under his breath. Darius furrowed his brows and only managed to catch snippets of his conversation.

“…Emma…Killian…dagger…unbelievable, never would believe it of him. I might have to bring _him_ after all if this one won't start to see reason,” he grumbled before he sensed that Darius was looking and managed to snap himself out of it and return his focus to the present at hand, which was a good thing because Darius thought this man was _insane_. He blinked rapidly a couple of times before turning his gaze towards Madellaine’s sleeping form, studying the rise and fall of her breast. “If I could offer you one piece of my counsel, you cannot stay like this. Halfway between this life and another. You could leave the church behind with her,” here, he jerked his head towards Barreau. “Start over. _Forget_ about those things you aren’t too proud of. Leave behind your old haunts. Even _you_ as sad, broken, and as _lonely_ as you are, deserves a better life than what you gave yourself,” Gold confessed, his lined and weathered face saddened.

Feeling frustration rise within himself, Darius turned to glower at the Scottish man perched in his own chair, seated a little too close to Madellaine for his liking. He hated the sight and feel of pity. It made him want to burn the man’s retinas just for looking at him the way that he was. He wanted _nothing_ from this bloke.

But before Darius could open his mouth to retort, Gold continued and didn’t give the younger man a chance to interject.

“I know you don’t _want_ my pity, and I’m not _asking_ you for it,” Rumple said at last, though he sounded rather hesitant. “But I don’t think I’ve ever met a man I grieve for more than you, and if your family member that I’m so well acquainted with were here right now and could see this, he’d be _laughing_ at me, I’m sure,” he grumbled, sounding thoroughly disgruntled and put off.

Darius furrowed his dark brows, taking some small comfort in feeling Madellaine’s cool hand resting in his searing-hot burning palms, suddenly wishing that his lady love would wake up. Whatever Gold wanted to tell him, she deserved to hear it too, as from now on, wherever Madellaine went, so did he.

Because…because he loved her. Darius awkwardly shifted his position on the edge of the cot’s makeshift mattress, trying to be as delicate as possible so as to not wake her up prematurely, all the while it dawned on her and he shot a truly withering glower towards this man, this Monsieur Gold. “You _know_ something, don’t you?” he accused hotly. “About me. My life. What is it?”

Rumple hesitated, biting down on his bottom lip. Darius’s gaze drifted down to see that the man’s hands were shaking.

“I didn’t mean—” Gold began, but Darius cut him off.

“ _Tell me_.” He growled his command more than spoke it, never once reverting his gaze as the other man looked deeply into the former soldier’s glacier-blue eyes.

Rumple froze, stalling his movements. Gods be damned, but the man was a dead ringer for Killian, he could take Darius back to Storybrooke and swap Killian for this man, and Emma wouldn’t know the difference if only to get stupid Jones out of his hair for a while, though there was the problem of Darius still possessing both hands. Rumple grunted as he pondered over this genius idea.

Rumple was briefly tempted by this compelling idea if only to have a little fun and watch them all squirm, but he quickly shoved aside the thought to the back of his mind and forced his wandering mind back to the matter at hand.

Whatever Gold must have seen within Darius’s narrowing, cerulean blue eyes was enough to make the older Scottish man decide not to play games and beat around the bush.

“Very well. Everything on your mother’s side of the family has been left to you, Darius. You’re going to have to claim the inheritance, as the family changed their will quite some time ago. Your father’s surname was Jones, and he was _not_ a spice merchant as he would have had you believe when you were just a wee lad growing up. The man was a _pirate_ , when he and your mother married, he changed your family name to protect your mother and yourself, Barret. I’ll have you know I chased him halfway across the entire bloody continent to get my proof. Your father promised your mother before she passed while you were away during one of the wars that he’d never let you become sucked into that world, that you were better off a free man, poor if that were what you so choose, or a soldier, a farmer, whatever you wanted with your life. He made your mother a promise that he would not let _his_ haunts become yours. You might not believe me, but I have proof to show it—” he started, but Darius immediately cut him off.

“ **WHAT DO YOU MEAN**?” Darius, lurching to his feet, momentarily forgetting Madellaine was in the room alongside him.

Rumple cringed and immediately looked to the blonde, but didn’t wake as he rose to his feet, groaning with the effort as his bad leg was cramping worse than ever, causing him to lean heavily to the right on his walking stick he’d brought for support.

He continued speaking, unfazed by Darius’s outburst. “I have _proof_ ,” he pressed onward as he dipped into an interior pocket of his black woolen robes and procured a packet of papers, and wordlessly handed it to Darius for his examination.

It included the note from Darius’s father, the marriage and birth certificates that Rumple had gone to painstaking lengths in order to hunt down, literally chasing the retired pirate halfway across Europe until Rumple finally caught Darius’s father in a Scandinavian village, where the man died of a heart attack shortly thereafter but had lived long enough to use his last breath to convey his wishes that his son would live a good life, a better life than he had led.

He’d managed to find it under their false name of Barret in the district office that their previous home had been closest to.

“You’re a _Jones_ , Darius. It’s time you accept it as a fact that your dearly beloved father and mother _lied_ to you to protect you.”

“ _That’s—that’s not true_!” the handsome priest bellowed, seizing on tufts of his dark hair, and tugged on them hard enough that he felt the roots scream in protest. It hurt as hell, but he welcomed the pain. The only comfort he could manage to assuage his guilt and anger at the emotional blow dealt him by this news was that he was grateful Madellaine was knocked out. He didn’t want the girl to see him like this. “Seven… _seven_ _fucking_ _hells_ …”

He didn’t bloody care that he was on Holy Ground anymore, he’d told Alice to burn his habits, let him curse until he was blue in the face. Let the Devil himself hear him. He was _done_ as a monk. He wished he could think of something stronger to say. His breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps, his chest felt tight. So damned bloody tight that he thought he might actually faint. The blood was pounding, roaring in his eardrums.

Rumple sensed the younger man’s growing temper and quickly cast a nervous gaze towards Madellaine, still sound asleep.

“Please don’t do something _stupid_ , you'll wake up your lady love and upset the lass, so shut the hell up,” Gold desperately urged, choosing to perch himself on the edge of the girl’s cot, just in case he happened to lash out at something in his anger, the young mademoiselle would be protected from the worst of his ire.

“But then why did you _tell_ me this, if not for me to _do_ _something_ about it?” Darius shouted as his anger surged through his veins like a sweeping torrent, changing him from the inside.

He almost launched himself across the small room at the older Scottish man but somehow, by the grace of God, didn’t do it.

Gritting his teeth together in anger, he picked up the chair he had previously been occupying and threw it, where it clattered on the opposite wall with a loud, resounding clang as it fell to the floor. Darius was making a horrible noise that belonged to neither animal nor man, a noise of utter agony, pain, betrayal, that his whole life had been a bloody lie, that he had never been a Barret.

His father was a _pirate_ , for God’s sake. A _criminal_! The very _scum_ of the earth that as a soldier, he’d _killed_ , hung, burnt. Gold was cautiously kneeling beside him, trying to put a soothing arm over the man’s shoulders, but Darius violently ripped away, the world around him feeling like it was bloody spinning.

He flung himself against the wall of the room, screaming. Presently, given his current mood, neither Rumpelstiltskin nor Madellaine (who had woken up by this point and jolted upright, a startled cry upon her lips that was drowned out by his yells) made any attempt to go anywhere near given the man’s violent temper.

The pair of them sat silent, saying absolutely nothing. At last, when Darius knelt on his knees, motionless, panting and gasping for breath raggedly, Gold moved in and made his move.

“I _understand_ how hard this is for you to process, but there’s not a lot of time left to make your decision, boy. Everything has been left to you. Think of the girl. Your _future_.”

“ _Get out_ ,” Darius snarled through gritted teeth as he pointed a shaking finger towards the closed door, before swiveling his head away, only to lift his gaze and lock eyes with Madellaine.

His blush seared through his cheeks upon seeing the woman that he loved awake, knowing she’d witnessed all of what had happened just now for herself. For a moment, Darius thought his face was utterly on fire. He suddenly felt awkward, coy, and demure, and even going as far as attempting to hide his reddening, burning features behind his violently shaking slender fingers.

Darius knew without a shadow of a doubt that Madellaine was looking at him with no small amount of horror in those bewitching blue eyes of hers, that she was looking at a _monster_.

His blush only worsened as Rumple murmured a half-hearted, yet slightly relieved sounding farewell under his breath, for now, promising he would check on Madellaine later, but Darius paid the man leaving the room and closing the door behind him no mind. His attention was fixated solely on _her_.

He parted his lips open to speak to Madellaine and try to address the truly horrific scene the young blonde woman had just woken up to, that was all his fault by the way, but the only thing that poured out of his lips was a strangled attempt at speech as he knelt on the floor in shock.

“Fuck,” Darius whisper hissed through gritted teeth. “I…I _woke_ you up,” he stammered, his voice rough and hoarse. As far as awkward situations went, Darius thought as he forced himself to reluctantly meet the young woman’s gaze head-on, seeing her expression stricken with abject horror, fear, and a horrible, heart-wrenching sympathy as tears filled her blue eyes, tonight could not possibly get any worse for him. “I should go…”

“ _No_!” she cried out, desperation laced through her voice as the man shakily rose to his feet and turned on his heels to leave. “Don’t go. Stay. I—I heard everything,” Madellaine whispered. She waited to speak until Darius reluctantly and cautiously made his way and perched himself at the edge of her mattress.

Grabbing onto the man’s biceps with her trembling, bandaged hands, Madellaine grunted with the effort to sit upright, careful to not accidentally jostle her injured, bandaged leg in the process. “I don’t care what you want, Darius. If you want the inheritance, it’s yours, take it, but will you just…decide what to do tomorrow? For now, will you…will you stay with me? I don’t want you to leave, I...don't want to be alone tonight,” Madellaine declared boldly, biting her lip.

Feeling totally unsure and disbelieving of her own actions at what she was about to do but wanting so desperately to close off the gap of space between them, Madellaine pressed her lips against Darius’s mouth and kissed him, silently willing him to stay. Darius sat on the edge of her cot, utterly shellshocked, and unable to move, much less think, the darkroom around them spinning in a truly dizzying way as he tasted her sweet kiss, feeling her lips move in sync with his. He was shocked, of course, but it was more so with the stupor of finally being granted the one thing he’d wanted God to send him the most: a second chance at life.

With Madellaine if she would have him. He wanted her. _Just_ her.

And Darius was afraid if he moved even a fraction of an inch or broke apart from the gentle but passionate embrace, she would disappear from his life yet again for a second time, like trying to catch the wind through his fingers, but God, he would try. One of these days, he was going to stop chasing this woman, but not anytime soon. Darius knew he couldn’t afford to take any risks. Even if this was exactly what he wanted, what Hanna wanted, and more importantly, what Madellaine wanted, he had to know for sure. As a consequence, Darius could barely bring his lips to meet hers to reciprocate the kiss, though he ached for it.

Not since meeting Hanna had he been so positive of his own feelings and so uncertain at the same time. With Madellaine it was different. She was different. Darius had no idea what the bloody hell he was doing, and he felt like an awkward little boy, not sure what to do next, but Madellaine, God bless her, didn’t care. His hands moving by instinct, one caressed her cheek while the other drifted to the back of her hair, pressing against it softly.

The gentle feeling of her body pressed against his was almost too much for him to bear. He was utterly horrified that he would make a wrong move against her. And even more afraid that Madellaine would misinterpret. She did when she realized Darius was not reacting to the embrace of her lips against his.

Shaken and shocked, Madellaine broke apart, her face flushed, pale blue orbs searching his face for the truth. Her hurt expression registered her confusion as she lowered her hands from his face and brought one of them up to cover her mouth as Madellaine turned away. Horrified by the display of affection she had bestowed upon her partner, Madellaine gawked at Darius.

She stood there, numb, rooted to her spot, and then took a fumbling step backward from him in embarrassment. "I—I'm sorry, Darius. Forgive me," she begged desperately, utterly mortified. "I didn't mean…" As Madellaine took a cautious step towards the edge of the bed, meaning to brush past him, Darius caught Madellaine gently by the wrist and spun her around to face him, a solemn expression on his too pale, scarred face.

"Madellaine. _Stop_ ," he implored her, desperate to make her see. "The only thing I want is to be close to you, to hold you, to kiss you…" he murmured, his voice lowering and heavy desire for the young woman now in his arms. "The last thing I want in this life is to _ever_ hurt you." His affection-filled eyes met hers, gleaming with unshed moisture that was not exactly tears, but love. "But are you _sure_? Is this…is _me_ …what you want, _forever_?" he asked, reaching up a hand to gently caress her face.

For a moment, Madellaine was dumbstruck. Speechless. She could not speak. Could not think, all she could do was nod, unable to tear her gaze away from his, though she swore she felt the piercing stare of that strange bloke, Gold, even behind closed doors, though as she briefly looked, she didn’t see the man at all.

She heaved a frustrated sigh and turned her attention back towards her handsome priest. She was awestruck by the lengths that Darius went to care for her, and it was at that moment that she realized why her love had not reciprocated her kiss the way that she had hoped, and she loved him more for it.

He had wanted Madellaine to be completely assured of them, and comfortable with having Darius in her life.

Madellaine took a moment to mirror his emotions and brought her hands to his face and answered his question.

"I've never been surer of anything in my life," she declared, smiling softly at him, tears welling in her eyes, though her smile faltered as her blue eyes became glossy. Darius froze at the sudden crumple of her face before it hit him. _Maria_. “She…she tried to _save_ me,” Madellaine whispered, pain rioting inside of her chest. “She—she did all that she could do to save me and the only thing I did was doubt her,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She—she _died_ for _me_. For _us_ …”

He nodded as Madellaine wound her arms around his neck and clung to him like Darius was the only one she had left. Darius could only hold her, her warmth spilling through the thick layers of his black doublet and layers of undershirt.

"I thought I had lost you today, Madellaine. I don't want to ever lose you. I…" Darius hesitated, biting on the wall of his cheek, seeming so unsure, so uncertain of himself, but forced himself to press on, knowing she needed to hear it. "I love you, Madellaine, with all that I am, though I may not be much at all," he murmured huskily under his breath.

"I love you too," she whispered, leaning in and gently pressed her lips to his, only breaking the passionate kiss when she heard him grunt with the effort to gasp for air. Reluctantly, she pulled apart and back to study Darius's face.

His expression and somewhat dazed attitude must have said more than his words ever could because Madellaine allowed a light little giggle to flit past her lips, feeling happy and content, neither of them could explain away the peace that was starting to wallow in both of their souls.

"I'm going to hold onto you, Madellaine," he promised, no hint of joking in his voice or in his light blue eyes, which were suddenly ablaze with a fiery intensity and a passion burning within hotter than Hellfire itself, the likes of which Madellaine was quite confident she'd never seen in Darius before, and she was not sure what to make of the new look. "I'm _not_ going to let you go," Darius continued, noticing Madellaine open her mouth to interject.

She had been about to say that she wasn't about to go anywhere and that Darius was stuck with her until he didn't want her anymore and he tired of her company, which hopefully that meant for the rest of time itself, though he shot her a pointed look, and she clamped her lips shut, deciding it was best to just let Darius speak and say whatever was on his mind, or she'd suffer for it later. He exhaled another deep, long, slow exhale before continuing.

"I'm _not_ going to let you get away from me again, Madellaine, not a second time, and not ever again if I can help it," he whispered, a pained look overcoming his features as he thought of how she had almost succeeded in sacrificing herself in order to save not only him but Quasi and Belle from Maria.

"I'm not going to let you go, sweetheart, because…I…I don't think I _can_ ," Darius confessed, though he did not sound ashamed to admit this out loud to Madellaine. "I _need_ you. When Gold and LeFou and I were coming to get you, not knowing whether you were alive or dead, all I could think about was you, if you were okay, if you were safe, if I would ever see you again. I was scared that I would never get to hug you again, kiss you, hold you, _laugh_ with you, and that _terrified_ me, and I thought that…even if you and I didn't end up together, I could still be happy knowing that you were in the world, but today, it took me almost _losing_ you for me to realize that…that _isn't_ true."

Madellaine swallowed thickly, blinking back tears. " _Why_?" she croaked hoarsely, due to the dust that had settled in her lungs from when she'd had to climb up that hole earlier.

"Why what?" Darius asked, looking perplexed and not quite understanding her question.

"Why did it ever terrify you that you wouldn't see me again? You could have any woman in the world that you wanted, so why did you choose me, Darius?" Madellaine let out a shaky sigh as she reached up and brushed his bangs out of his eyes as she waited for Darius's answer.

When he didn't answer, she grew panicked. " _Tell_ _me_ ," she implored, hoping her tone didn't sound desperate.

"Because, Madellaine. I _love_ you. Is that not _enough_ of a reason for you?" Darius asked, shooting her an incredulous look of disbelief as if he was having difficulty believing her words, as though Madellaine had sprouted antlers. "Just you. And _only_ you. You are not like any other woman that I've ever met. You have got a gift in seeing the beauty in others, even and perhaps especially, when I can't see it within myself," Darius confessed, a shy, small smile tugging at his lips.

His arms tightened around Madellaine as he drew himself as close as it was humanely possible to be as near to this celestial-like creature in his arms that he never wanted to let go of her if Darius could help it. He wasn't letting her go.

"I love you, Madellaine, with all my heart. Though I don't think my heart is enough for me anymore. I don't _want_ anyone else's heart. I’d cut out my heart if I could, but I kind of need it in order to stay alive and provide for you. For us, our children someday,” he teased. “Anything else and you’d have to keep it locked in a chest as Davy Jones did for Calypso,” he joked, but then his smile faltered, and he grew more solemn. “I love yours, and I trust _only_ yours, Madellaine."

"I'd spend forever with you if I could, Darius," Madellaine murmured lowly, not bothering to stifle her small, shy smile as a look of shock flitted across Darius's pale face at that moment, and then before either one could stop themselves, the pair of lovers were locked in an embrace. His lips moved slowly across Madellaine's at first, drinking her in, feeling her lips move in sync with hers, slow and sweet.

He let out a low groan as Madellaine threaded her fingers through his thick tuft of dark hair that would need a trim in the next few days. His hands traveled up and down her back as her head tilted to the side as the kiss deepened. Reluctantly, after a few minutes of this, they broke apart for some much-needed air, with Darius resting his forehead against Madellaine's, basking in the heat his partner gave off.

"If forever isn't long enough, then…how about the rest of our lives? Marry me?" he whispered, and before Madellaine could react, she felt Darius's hand hover over hers, uncurling her fingers and pressing something small and delicate into the palm of her now-outstretched hand. Madellaine made an odd, strangled noise that sounded like a cross between a gasp and a sob as she looked down at her hand with tear-filled, cracked pale blue irises at the plain, simple, but beautiful and elegant yellow gold ring in her hand.

"I…" she stammered, struggling to find her words. She desperately wracked her brain, her mind screaming at her to say the only answer that came to her mind, she couldn’t. At least not at first, but finally, she summoned enough strength on her throat to manage an answer.

Madellaine only had one answer to give as she mutely nodded, shooting Darius a kind, white smile as she allowed her now-fiancé to slip the band onto her finger.

" _Yes_ ," she whispered, smiling at how wide his smile was as he slipped it on her finger and leaned in for a kiss. "Forever is a decent enough start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Glad Darilene is getting married and on the steps to a HEA. The next chapter is checking in on Prince & Maria, and the following segment is what we've all been waiting for: Baby Quasibelle, so stay tuned :)


	75. A Snatch and Grab

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR**

Rumple heaved a haggard sigh as he strolled away from the room where Killian’s ancestor and the young blonde were admittedly having a ‘moment.’ He snorted and rolled his eyes to himself. He’d not be surprised if he were to learn the girl would be pregnant with a babe of her own herself not long after this. He shook his head to himself, quite sure the shock was evident on his face as he closed the door behind him, to find Agathe and Regina collectively slumped against the floor, their backs resting against the wall.

He almost laughed at how haggard the ‘refined queen’ of Storybrooke was looking, at the dark circles under her lids that suggested Regina hadn’t slept an ounce since coming.

Despite his best efforts, Rumple couldn’t help commentating. The opportunity was entirely too good to pass up.

“You look like shit. You’ve seen better days, Queen, haven’t you?” he sneered, unable to resist the twisted smirk that curled the edges of his lips upward at seeing the younger woman like this, thinking that oh, how the mighty doth have fallen.

His gaze drifted towards the peacefully sleeping figures of Maria de Barreau and the Prince, entwined in an embrace that made him suddenly want to give everything to be in that state, but with his Belle back home. He was eager to return to his and Regina’s time, but he knew there was still one more thing he had to do.

He wasn’t _going_ to do it, at least not originally, but after everything that had transpired, and sensing that the boy who he’d left in the other room, well a man by his early thirties, though in Rumple’s immortal status, until he could figure a way to rid himself of the dagger, Darius Jones— _not Barret_ , even _he_ had to remind himself, was very much a boy, and he was still going to need convincing.

That required bringing _him_ here, as loath as he was to admit it, but he shoved aside such thoughts for now and looked towards the pair of young lovers on the bed, unable to resist asking after the two.

“How are they? Especially _her_?” he questioned, taking advantage of the only seat in the room to sit. The women seemed to show no signs of wanting to get up off the floor and considering he was a superior being, well. A chair was obviously needed here to show the difference in value.

Agathe shot Rumple a pointed look, pursing her lips into a thin line before tearing her gaze away and looking towards Maria’s bruised and battered form. She was lucky she and Regina had been able to revive her, though it wasn’t without its consequences.

“They will both live,” she answered, though it wasn’t enough to disguise the note of hesitancy in her quiet tone.

Rumple bristled, the young witch’s tone made the fine hairs on the backs of his neck stand upright in a sense of agitation. “ _And_?” he pressed, leaning forward heavily against his walking stick for support. “I take it by your tone it isn’t good, dear?” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb.

Agathe inclined her head slowly but surely, confirming his worst suspicions. “I was able to save her life. She had significant internal bleeding, and when the castle more or less exploded and buried these two underneath the rubble, the girl was struck in such a way that it has permanently affected her memory, my old friend. She woke briefly, couldn’t recall her own name, who she was, where she was. She didn’t know Adam’s name, but she knew him to be someone she cared for and was in love with.”

She sighed, carding her fingers through her strawberry blonde curls while biting down on her bottom lip.

“Regina and I had no _choice_. To save them both the pain and heartache we had to modify their memories. They will have no choice but to start a new life together somewhere far away from France if they can help it, under new identities, and the other Barreau lass can never see her sister again. She already believes her to be dead, let it stay that way,” she growled, lifting her head sharply upward and fixing both Rumple and Regina with an admonishing glower. “Would you rather that girl’s heart break once or twice? It is not the ending I would have had in mind for them, considering Adam was successful in breaking my curse, but at least they will be together this way, happy in their new lives.”

Rumple slowly nodded his head at all of the information. He knew better than most that all magic, even his, held limitations, and judging by Regina and Agathe’s exhausted looks, the two women had done all in their power they could.

“I understand,” he answered, at last, his voice gravelly and a dark, somber look flitting across his face as he comprehended. “Where will you take them then? His castle is lying in ruins, and the man’s servants, what will become of them?”

Agathe shrugged her shoulders. “They are permitted to return home. I’ve modified their memories as well. They will surely find work elsewhere. As for these two, considering how much they loved to hunt in times past, I think I will take them somewhere where there are mountains, where they can see the sky, trek through the woods on a hunt if that’s what they want of life.” She was pensive, thoughtful for a good long moment, a crestfallen expression on her features. “I’ll move them in a moment to where they can start their new lives together, but I want to hear of your progress, warlock,” Agathe began, steering the conversation in a direction that was hopefully more pleasant.

Rumple made an odd disparaging noise that was more like a ‘harumph’ at the back of his throat and folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips into a thin, unmovable line, feeling his foot beginning to tap restlessly. He was all too well aware he was sulking, though he couldn’t quite help it. He had no other choice. He’d have to bring him here. It was the only way. “Our…mutual friend, he might be marrying her, but…he’s still hesitant. I could read his mind, hear his thoughts, Agathe.”

Agathe, without missing a beat, fixed the immortal warlock with a pointed glower of her own, tossing her hair over her shoulders and huffing in frustration. “You mean to do it, then? You’re really going to—” she started, but he cut her off.

“I have no choice!” Rumple snapped, bolting upright to his feet, and restlessly beginning to pace the length of the room, wildly gesticulating with his hands. “Were that I could, I’d really rather not, but I—” He started to elaborate, but Regina interjected and shakily rose to her feet, looking pale and tired.

“Say no more. Come back with me. I think I’ve done all that I can here. I know where to find our friend. I can take you there, Dark One,” she replied, with just a semblance of warmth in her tone, smiling at him in a way that would have normally made Rumple feel unhinged, though as Regina held out her hand for the warlock to take, he was hit with an overwhelming feeling that things were out of hand, that they had no choice but to do the thing that Rumpelstiltskin had been dreading the most.

The warlock hesitated, chewing on the wall of his mouth for a fraction of a second before seeing no other choice, as Agathe was getting ready to transport Madellaine’s sister and her reformed Prince to a secluded place in the mountains somewhere far from France, to save her sister from further heartache, then.

“ _Fine_ , I guess we have no damn choice,” he grumbled, heaving a sigh in frustration. “But I’m not going to _like_ it,” he spat, to which Agathe chuckled and Regina threw back her head and laughed, her laughter echoing long in the chambers after the two magical beings had vanished, as though they’d never existed.

* * *

“How much _farther_?” Emma whined, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout, having to pause to wipe her hands on the front of her black balloon-sleeved babydoll mini dress and shift her little purse to her other arm to ease the ache in her shoulder. She and Killian had been walking for what felt like forever following their celebratory date night of Emma's news, and to say that her feet were killing her in her sandals, not having anticipated she'd be walking this much, were kind of killing her, blisters already forming at her heels.

“Not far,” Killian grinned, turning his head to the side and shooting his wife of six months an infectious white smile that even after all this time made Emma Swan-Jones weak at the knees. He grinned at the blonde’s flustered expression and pressed his lips to her cheek for a chaste kiss, intertwining his rough, calloused hand with hers, the other coming to rest on the flat of her stomach. “You’ll like the surprise, love, I promise it's worth the walk. We're almost there,” he teased lovingly.

The baby was a surprise. She wasn’t far along at all, only two months or so. She didn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl, but she supposed at some point they ought to start talking names.

“How do you feel about all this?” Emma blurted out, she’d not really asked Killian what he thought of her pregnancy.

His thumb came up to caress her lips, and Emma shuddered at his tender touch. He’d never touched her mouth before. It made her convinced that whatever ‘surprise’ Killian had in mind for her, that it was going to be like anything else she could ever imagine, and this caused her anticipation to grow.

Emma was curious, sensing it had the potential, to whatever he was planning to something truly wonderous.

“I’m glad,” he said.

No need for pretending around his wife as he smiled at her. Her pirate wasn’t able to hide it well enough from Emma. His thumb returned to her lips a second time, and for a moment Killian stared at Emma’s pink lips.

“You’re tense, Emma,” he finally murmured.

She furrowed her thin blonde brows in a frown. Killian was tenser than she was, and he wasn’t the one growing a little person in their belly, but she didn’t want to argue with her husband at the moment.

“Close your eyes. We’re here.” The note of excitement in the pirate’s voice was almost overwhelming. Her curiosity growing, she did as she was told, her pulse rising and her breaths catching in her throat. Killian’s strong hands traveled up her arms until they landed on her shoulder muscles and kneaded them gently.

As her love started to massage her shoulders, Emma realized she was right—even though she was calm and collected on the outside, her body since learning of her pregnancy was beyond tense. The pressure his fingers inflicted, however, melted the tension, and soon Emma was leaning into the touch, and her eyelids fluttered open. She gaped at what she saw. “Is that…?”

“Yup,” Killian teased as the pair stood in front of their new house, about a block from Granny’s Café they frequented often. “I figured since we’re going to be a family of three, we’ll need a bigger place, sweetheart. Do you like it?” he asked. Emma parted her lips open slightly to speak, squirming in her husband’s embrace, though a loud, deafening _crack_! that sounded like a car backfiring or even someone Apparating like in the _Harry Potter_ books and movies she loved so bloody much, causing the scream to tumble unchecked from her lips, her heart rate quickening as she whirled around on her heels, breathing out a sigh of relief as she realized it was only Rumple and Regina.

Though something was wrong. Emma felt her face drain of color as the pair bolted straight for Killian and wrenched the man away from Emma, leaving Emma standing alone on the frontmost step of the front porch of her and Killian’s new home.

“ **WHAT THE BLOODY HELL**?!?” Killian bellowed, thrashing under Rumple’s surprisingly strong grip for one so old. “ **GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME**! **DO YOU THNK YOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME FIRST**? **LET GO OF ME**!” he shouted, though his growing anger only increased Rumple’s strong grip. “ **YOU BASTARD** —”

Though before he could utter so much as another syllable, Rumple’s arms tightened around his middle, well one of them, the other clamped over the younger man’s mouth, preventing him from speaking further, muffling his screams, though not before Rumple drew back his hand and backhanded the pirate across the cheek so hard Emma swore she heard a neck muscle crack.

" _One more word_ ," Rumple whisper-hissed through gritted teeth. "And I'll hit you again, Hook," he snapped. "You're gonna tag along with us, and don't be a dipshit about it either. I don't have much time to explain, I'll explain when we _get_ there, but for now, shut the hell up and stay bloody quiet," he snarled, his eyes flashing indignantly in his growing anger.

“ _Sorry_ to break up this _touching_ intimate moment, dearie,” Rumple called, grunting with the effort to maintain his grip on Jones, and having to raise his voice to ensure he was heard, and Emma was at least pleased to say that he did look remorseful, which was saying something. “But I need to _borrow_ your husband for something. I’m afraid I can’t tell you why or what it is, but it's a matter of utmost urgency that concerns your family's safety. Bound to secrecy and all that jazz, but Gina and I will bring him back unharmed within two days.”

“What…?” Emma started to ask, a million and one questions burning on the tip of her tongue as her face flushed in confusion and a slight fear for what it was that Rumple and Regina could possibly want with Killian, where they were taking her husband, though before she could so much as utter another syllable, there was a loud, deafening _crack_! as the pair of them vanished yet again, taking her husband with her, causing a gust of wind to rustle through the otherwise empty street, blowing her hair off her shoulders and rustling the skirts of her dress, leaving Emma to stand alone on the porch of her and Killian’s house.

She resisted the urge to growl in frustration, toying with a lock of her blonde hair. She stood there rooted to her spot for what felt like an eternity, standing wide-eyed, transfixed at the spot where not even a second ago, the three of them had stood, before finally coming to, giving her head a curt little shake, and stalking her way up the steps and wrenching open the door and disappearing inside her and Killian’s home, already thinking that Rumple and Regina were going to have some _explaining_ to do when they got back.

And this time, Emma would hold them to it.


	76. The Intruder in the Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up, this chapter time jumps, obviously, in time for baby Quasibelle's arrival. In case it's not already clear in the first couple of sentences, Regina and Rumple take Killian to about 7 months in Belle's timeline, since mostly throughout the story she was about 2-ish months pregnant, give or take, save to this point :)

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE**

Almost the moment that Rumple and Regina arrived back on the solid Parisian ground with a fuming, furious Killian Jones in tow, landing purposefully just on the outskirts of the city gates to allow themselves to walk at a leisurely pace and explain what was going on, considering they had just landed seven months in the future, with Belle’s time almost upon her, growing rounder as the days passed, Darius was dealing with his _own_ bout of problems at the moment.

Namely, the ability to control himself. It was something that Madellaine was growing increasingly frustrated with during their courtship, and in the midst of when she was supposed to be resting, he’d come to find that she had snuck off without telling anyone. He’d practically cornered poor Belle and forced the young brunette bell ringer’s wife to tell her where.

 _The River Seine_ , Darius recalled Belle saying. _She told me she likes to go there to think and watch the ducks, my friend_.

He kept telling himself this was a bad idea, that he and Madellaine should wait to consummate their union until they were married within a fortnight, but she was making it increasingly difficult to do just that. His nerves were shot as he approached the young blonde, looking every bit the true vision of loveliness in a long linen light long-sleeved green dress that highlighted the gold tones of her short shaggy blonde hair, watching the rippling waters of the River Seine and the ducks on the river’s embankment. She was so still and unmoved that for a moment, Darius doubted if she were breathing at all, or if she was frozen to the spot.

 _She must be praying for her siste_ r, he thought. She had not taken the news well months ago when Agathe had emerged from her sister’s chambers that the two had passed. He’d not seen what had become of their land’s Prince’s bodies nor Madellaine’s sister, but Agathe had seen to it to spare Madellaine the pain of having to do it all on her own.

Darius made to duck behind a tree, though her voice halted his movements before he had the opportunity to do so.

“Darius,” she called out to him, and he instinctively felt his body stiffen. Madellaine never once peered over her shoulder to look back at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the water ahead of her, still not budging an inch, though she sensed his nearness.

Darius blew out a deep breath as he summoned every ounce of strength within himself, every bit of the man and soldier and monster he knew himself to be, and all that was in between. He waited for his love, no, scratch that. He ached for the sweet sound of his name coming from her tongue again, and yet when she called to him again, Darius couldn’t answer Lena.

“What are you doing out here?” Madellaine asked flatly.

“I wanted to see you, love,” he blurted out, somewhat awkwardly, raking his slender fingers through his thick tuft of dark hair, wincing as he realized how bloody long it was getting.

Briefly, he hoped Alice would trim it for him and— _Alice_! Fucking seven hells. He’d bloody all but forgotten and he'd been courting Barreau now for almost seven months. Darius’s burning blue eyes widened in shock and horror as the color in his face drained as he dragged his palm down along his forehead, a look of exasperation on his pale features.

He’d promised the older woman who was as good as a mother figure to him that he would introduce the woman who he was marrying to see her at his earliest opportunity and had forgotten. She was sure to bloody _murder_ him when they went back to the cathedral to check on Belle and Quasi and Darius would be the first to admit that he would probably rightfully deserve it. But first…he wanted to see _her_ , to check on his Lena. Darius was pulled from his thoughts when Madellaine spoke up.

“You don’t need to redeem yourself around me, Dari,” she whispered, still not looking at him, not noticing the tremor of pleasure waft up and down his spine at the nickname she had just bestowed upon him. Not even Hanna had ever called him it. “You told me what makes you…well, _you_ , Darius. It’s enough.”

Darius waited for Madellaine to elaborate, but no words left her lips, save for a heavy, tired-sounding sigh of exasperation.

“What _of_ me, Lena?” he asked, watching the young woman consider what words to say next to him. He could sense the wheels in her mind turning as several possible responses flitted through her mind, but she had the sense to keep it to herself. And so, she said to him, “That’s for _you_ to decide, Dari.”

There was a long pause as the two stood shoulder-to-shoulder, content to watch the ducks float on the water’s surface.

It seemed to take Madellaine de Barreau an eternity to find her voice again, and when she did, her voice was faint, little more than a susurration, a whisper on the wind. If Darius hadn’t been closely scooting his way towards her, unable to stand the gap of space between them, he felt sure he would have missed it.

Madellaine finally turned to face Darius, her pale face quite solemn and grim, her cobalt blue irises austere and her lips rigid and unsmiling. Her every word was spoken unarmed Darius. “You can take off your armor you wear around your heart around me, Darius. If I’m to marry you, please let me _in_.”

Darius gaped at Maria Barreau’s younger sister, hardly daring to believe his ears. His heart felt like it had ceased to stop beating in his chest the moment his brain processed her words. “ _How_?” Darius heard himself asking in a faint, hoarse voice that cracked and warbled as he swallowed past a lump.

Madelaine paused, an expression darting across her features that the former priest was not sure what to make of.

“I want you to have me. As you mean to keep me, to please me,” she whispered, lowering her voice an octave so that only she could hear him. “I want you…to keep me, Darius.” She cupped his jaw in her hands as she spoke, their lips less than a sigh apart, and he was half-closing his eyes in anticipation of a kiss, but she played him.

She was _toying_ with him, and Darius did not like it when she pulled away from him and left him hanging.

Slowly, she gave him a last lingering look and sauntered towards the River Seine, the water’s temperatures sure to be a welcome reprieve in the heady heat of July. He gaped at her as she stopped at the edge of the river. Whatever Lena was doing to him, left him utterly spellbound and at a total loss for words.

The river in front of the young blonde was almost a dark and daunting crystal as if calling to her. The ripples played on its smooth surface and it smelled of sweet moss. Madellaine knelt and her fingers touched the water and made even more ripples that continued out to the middle of the lake and dispersed into nowhere. Perhaps, she mulled, ripples were like fame, riches, or power. The moment it grows and extends across the surface, it's nice, and then it's gone in an instant.

But the touch of it though was delish. Biting the inside wall of her cheek, she perched herself on a boulder and pulled off her boots and shrugged out of her light green linen dress meant to protect herself from hungry eyes, other eyes of wandering men, though she could practically feel Darius’s icy-blue piercing stare burning a hole in the back of her skull as she discarded her clothes and was completely naked, shrugging out of her dress and linen underclothes and letting it fall to a crumpled heap by her feet as she sauntered into the water. Darius felt his eyes widen at the boldness of the move, not having anticipated she would be swimming naked in the River Seine.

"What are you doing, Lena?" he croaked, feeling the heat creep to his cheeks as he regarded his love in such an intimate manner. He flushed, the heat creeping to his cheeks. He felt as though he had no right to see Madellaine in such an intimate way, at least, not before they were married, but now that he was truly seeing the woman who would be his wife for eternity, bugger that concept, he thought angrily. He felt as though he were intruding on something private.

And yet...the mad dog within him was practically growling in pleasure at the sight. She was truly delish.

"What if—what if someone _sees_ you? Get back here!" he called out, his fingers twitched as his arm lunged out to grab at her, but his body had stiffened, and he felt frozen and rooted to his spot, stuck. He silently watched his love. Her well-shaped hips, his grandmother if she were still alive, would have called them too skinny, not childbearing hips. She fed her bare feet on the water, her toes wiggling and wiping the moss off the stones.

The coldness of the water almost made her gasp, and she dipped her feet further wading into the water. Darius felt his eyes widen and his eyelid gave another twitch in irritation as the hot fiery flames of lust and desire for the woman from his dreams continued to surge through his bloodstream and he began to have highly inappropriate thoughts of Barreau before they were married, the overwhelming want developing as an ache so bad that he thought if he did nothing to tamp it down, then he would surely implode.

"Get back here!" Darius barked, almost angry with her, but it was already too late. The water engulfed her knees and soon she submerged herself almost all the way, so the only visible part of her form was her head and neck. Darius barely stifled his low warning growl, almost a threat. He didn't want Lena to get caught like this. Or anyone else, let alone another _man_ , to see her in this manner. How he saw her now...was meant for _him_ and him alone. "Get out of the water right now! It's—it's not safe for you to be swimming in the Seine, Lena. God only knows what’s festering in here," he snarled, baring his teeth, and running his tongue along the wall of his teeth, and he winced at the sharpness of his incisors.

His eyes followed her backside as she turned away from him, silently watching Madellaine as he witnessed the water sink her hips and she outstretched her arms and floated on the water's surface, and she looked every bit like a mystical water nymph. This woman…his beloved, his affianced, was his. Just _his_.

Darius felt himself shift slightly and perhaps for the first time, really regarded Lena in a new light and took in all of Madellaine's appearance. Her pale skin, with scars of her own, flawless though in its own right, almost white against the pitch blackness of the water she had wholly submerged herself in. Her slender nose.

But in Madellaine, Darius saw an unprecedented beauty, and there was that small part of his mind—the savage, wolfish part of his old personality as a soldier—that despised her for it. He hated and reviled this creature's beauty, and he craved it like a drug as well, wanting to guard and keep Madellaine for himself for the rest of their lives together. That there was even the slimmest chance of her getting away from him was abhorrent.

"It's all right, Darius. I've done this before, sweetheart. It’s late. We’re not going to get caught. Come join me, love.”

She rolled her eyes in jest at Darius's unnecessary fretting over what she had done. Madellaine turned to him, unsmiling but just as amused. She was calm and resolute, and her gray eyes glistening with something that Darius could only surmise as a challenge to him to get out of his comfort zone.

"And…I want you…to have me. But…you have to come to find me first," she murmured lowly. He saw her outstretched arms and the strands of her now-shoulder length wavy blonde hair that framed her face in layers as she was letting it grow out a little bit for their wedding, clung wetly to her forehead water dripped from her prominent jawline. She really was every bit a water nymph and was living up to that image in this regard.

So much that he thought it was driving his mind insane and he ground his teeth in one last-ditch effort to restrain himself and resist the call of her aura. He was drunk as hell on her scent, and no longer able to resist. Darius was hardly aware his fingers had practically formed into claws and were raking down the side of his leather breeches in the sheer effort to restrain himself. His body was wallowing in its own weakness, and the racing of his heart intensified. Darius's blood was boiling it was almost igniting as rage in his veins.

She was playing on him, teasing him, taunting him.

That such a delectable creature could one day be his wife, if she would have him, felt like a paradise, a beautiful dream that he did not want to wake from. Lena was perhaps the only one good thing in his life, aside from Belle and Quasi asking him and Madellaine to be their babe's godparents the moment it came into the world, and it was then that her words resonated in the confines of his agonized mind now. Madellaine played on him, on the Mad Beast's lusts within himself, and he did not like it one bit.

 _I want you to stay_. If he did not show her how much he appreciated her, in the way that he knew they had both wanted, but he had been too much a coward to initiate it, for fear of hurting her, harming her, if the monster within took control, then what if she left him?! And that… he could not allow.

And in Lena, his love, Darius saw nothing else but her beauty. Her head was now mostly submerged in the water, the only thing peeking out at him was those eyes of hers and her nose. But it was her eyes he was drawn to, that had ensnared him in her trap, pulling him closer towards the lake, his legs moving of their own volition.

Enticing him, calling to him like a siren of the sea. Her eyes were not merely gray, they were silver, he was sure. Brilliant and silver. Silver like the wolf that cried to the full moon, silver like the raging seas before the first ray of light touches its waves, silver like the shackles that bound his soul to hers, the ones that he would melt and tear away. Madellaine must have sensed what he was thinking.

"Come find me," she whispered, her voice carrying as a current as her sweet, succulent voice wafted to his ears. "And have me…keep me." And with that, she left Darius standing on the edge of the Seine and completely submerged herself under the water, and then as fleeting as an apparition, his Lena was gone, and he was alone.

Her words resonated in his mind and the mad dog within his chest growled and roared its displeasure at his lack of action in satiating these desires. _Find me…have me…keep me…_

Darius stifled a growl of frustration at the vicious way this vixen was playing on his desires like this, turning it into a game, thinking this was against his better judgment, but he felt his hands move of their own accord and peeled off his black linen undershirt, his doublet, and his leather breeches and kicked off his boots as he walked to the edge of the river where the water kissed the mossy rocks. When his bare feet touched the almost icy water, the mad dog within him caused him to let out a growl.

The iciness stung, but his desire to be with Madellaine outweighed his discomfort as he submerged in the water, and when the water reached his hips as well, and it touched him _there_ , he felt the familiar ache, almost like a twitch as he swam lazily towards the woman who he loved more than life itself.

"Show me," he pleaded. "How you want it. What to do. _Show_ _me_. I want to _feel_ …I want to _feel_ … _everything_ ," he pleaded, moisture glistening in his orbs. He’d never done this in the water before, but the chance was here lest he misses the opportunity.

When he felt her fingers clenched on the back of his hair, he bit her neck, wanting to elicit a response, and when she didn't, the mad dog within him took over.

Her eyes, that rich hue of glistening gray that stole his breath away while looking straight through to Darius's soul, and he could swear she saw all of him. He let out a content sigh as he felt one of his hands as it drifted upward and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her closer and out of the water, splaying his cloak out on the ground and practically shoving her backward, ignoring Lena's quiet yelp of surprise as she practically fell on top of him, her hand accidentally brushing against his thigh, which reignited the growing flame of passion that whelmed in his chest.

Her hands, as they continued to fidget and shake as her slender fingers snaked their way through his thick tuft of dark hair, whether out of adrenaline at almost drowning, or exhilaration at what was about to happen, he didn't know, but they stilled their movements as Darius caught Madellaine's right hand in his and brought her knuckles to his lips for a gentle kiss that sent a shudder of pleasure down her spine. It was enough for Darius to know that she wanted him, to feel him now. And her mouth. Oh, her sweet luscious pink lips.

To feel them move in sync with his. He hadn't kissed her since she’d left without telling him where she was going for a walk, the thought had been on his mind ever since she'd attempted to sneak off without him. His grip on her wrist tightened as he leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Darius heard her audible gasp of surprise, and that only ravaged the whelming ache in his legs even more.

Seven fucking hells, he couldn't fight the thoughts flooding through his mind right now.

Lena's very _smell_ brought his mind back to thoughts of autumn, pouring through his senses. His lips brushed against Madellaine's unexpectedly, giving Lena no time to react or pull away, though he thought she would explain away their behavior as inappropriate, which was what he expected. His kiss to Madellaine sent a shiver down her back.

Now she too had become seduced by the overwhelming senses, and Darius knew this by the look in her eyes. He shuddered as she reached up to her fingers and brought her hand to his lips, the pads of her fingertips tracing the outline of his lips in a way that Darius could hardly stand it. He loved the way her small body melted into his, the way she relented as he tugged a few strands of her hair, holding her tighter, closing off the gap of space between the two of them.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to Lena's. It's soft and gentle and chaste and maybe there's no fireworks or sparks, but it's better than that – it's a wave of warmth that filled him up, spilling out from his heart and the warmth of Lena's lips on his and rushing to every corner of his body: the cracks in between his toes, the crooks of his elbows, the tips of his ears. Every inch of him was saturated with love. His cold lips brushed against hers as he tugged Madellaine closer, almost violently, his hands coming up to grip painfully tight on her waist. She pressed her head against his sculpted chest, relishing the firm, hard muscle.

Nestling closer, she listened for his heartbeat. It was there, that thunderous, rapid pounding. Her frozen breath mingled with his as they stared at each other, both of them a little unsteady. Desire and a lustful hunger to satiate whatever was going through his mind glowed in his blue eyes.

Unable to resist any longer, he stooped, and their mouths pressed together in a long, passionate kiss. She drew her tongue over his teeth and swallowed his groan of pleasure as they slid closer to each other, no visible gap between them. Darius stirred, shifting her so that she was practically straddling his lap, both of his hands coming up to grip almost painfully tight on his waist. Darius could not help but feel drawn to it, to her smile as she met his gaze. He wanted it to stay.

As her soft lips stretched into the smile that did not quite meet Lena's eyes, they were lit with such a familiar sadness.

One that Darius was all too used to seeing within his own reflection, though he vehemently attempted to deny feeling such an emotion, thinking it beneath him, though the forced expression of the contrary on Lena's mouth would have looked quite comical to Darius if it did not currently make his heart feel heavy as he laid there. For a few moments, as he stared at Lena, he was almost quite certain that his love's expression mirrored his own. It broke his heart, what little heart he did possess to begin with.

Suddenly, he did not want her to leave. Darius did not want to turn into a random image that floated deep within the recesses of Lena's memory one day. He did not want to be the smile that squeezed her chest somewhere far away when he didn't make his true feelings known. He didn't want her to leave him. He did not want her to go. He wanted Lena and her beautiful smile to stay. She noticed him looking, and smiled, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, quirking a delicately shaped brow Darius's way.

"Convince me to stay, Darius. Love me. Like you wish for me to stay with you, love," she said, her lips parted slightly as she whispered it into the shell of Darius's right ear. "Convince me to stay if that is what you wish. Beg for me to stay... _Please_."

It was the use of the world _please_ that did it and he felt a sudden shift within himself, and the low growl that escaped him this time was not one of anger and triteness, but of pleasure, and this time, he did not bother to restrain himself.

Her hand alights on Darius's face, moving down past his bare and prominent collarbone. He let out a growl as her gaze drifted downwards towards his chest, at the dozens of angry red scars, courtesy of the mad dog he’d always known himself to be, markings of his past life, that he’d given himself nights after Hanna’s death, self-inflicted punishment for failing to save his wife and child. Already, his brain felt like it was on fire.

Lena was his angel, his beautiful angel with the fingertips of flame that Darius knew he did not deserve such a delectable creature in his life. The cold forest already felt warm as Darius heard Lena gasp as her fingertips traced down his hundreds of scars.

"You're staring, Lena," he commented, stifling a bemused smile as she blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and made to turn away, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as she squirmed on top of him, attempting to wrench herself off of him and move away, but his hand slid out and slid across Lena's hips, stalling her movements.

"I never claimed that I did not like it, love," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I want you to look at me." Darius let out a groan as he could hear the hoarseness and desire in his own voice for the angel that straddled his lap on top of his cloak that he'd laid out for him as he’d pulled her out of the water by this point, as his free hand not gripping onto her waist slipped underneath her, exploring, moving a little bit higher each time, until he found her entrance.

She was warm already, ready for him.

"Trust me when I tell you that I…I won't… _hurt_ you…" he urged, repressing a groan, closing his eyes as Darius felt Lena jerk her hips away with a sound that might have been a muted noise of pleasure before her voice trailed off quickly and she fell silent. "Show me," he encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down alongside her legs. "How you want it," he urged, hearing the desperation in his voice, relishing in Lena's groan as Darius drew his hand away, just too soon, when she was trembling. " _Together_ ," he whispered, as her lips lowered and captured his, albeit not roughly like he was used to doing in times when she would resist him. But… _gently_.

Darius groaned again as she shifted on top of his weight and slowly showed him how she wanted it, her movements slow but…tender, and almost…loving.

The cold riverbank already felt warm. It was hard for Darius to hold back, to make the special moment last. Wasn't that the way, so caught between the intoxication of his climax and extending a moment with Lena that he never wanted to end.

The way that her mouth was soft as she panted for breath. Slowly, Darius ran his hands down her body. Her skin was so flawless, smooth, and perfect, soft on her hips, and she cried out only once as Darius did not let her take the lead, continuing with his efforts to please her the way that she claimed to want, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his own. He set a growl with each push, hunger dawning on him like a wolf to a fox, but then he slowed midway through, wanting to make their moment last. Lena's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as he finished, the stars becoming novae in her gray eyes.

She twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe, and whispered something to Lena. Something for her ears only, the promise of what was coming next. When she kissed Darius, his brain lit on fire and the warmth spread throughout his entire body, the heat that she gave off scorching. After that, he was addicted, he couldn't bear to not be with her.

It had never been this way before, not with Hanna, and at the moment, Darius felt like he could barely breathe when she was around. Those kisses were his salvation and his torment, his purpose, and his anguish. Darius lived for them and he would die with the memory of them on his lips.

He dedicated his life to being with Lena from the moment of that kiss, for he knew that if he lost her, he would lose himself. She was the half that made him whole.

"This is what you've been missing," she whispered into the shell of his ear. " _Feel_ me. Have me. Every drop…every pulse…all of it. Love me, Dari…" Darius groaned and nestled in the crook of her neck, clenching his eyes, pleasure waves surged through his scarred body, searing him, branding him hotter than any dragon fire could ever flame, breaking him and rocking him to his core.

His nostrils flared and Darius could smell the want emanating off of his partner in waves, and he knew that she wanted this. Wanted _him_. Madellaine hurled her head back with eyes closed, feeling his excitement seep and extend into her. She was slowing down, and in that split second before her touch every nerve in Darius's body and brain became electrified. It's the anticipation of being together in a way that's more than words, in a way that's so completely tangible. One-touch and it was over, it was always that way with Madellaine.

It was rushed, panicked, and desperate, this act of sex that he’d not planned on initiating, but God Himself be damned, it had been years, far too long since he’d last had sex, and Darius was desperately trying not to embarrass himself in the process.

She moaned his name each and every time he filled her, her nails digging into his shoulders, his rough, calloused hands pressing into her hips as they laid on top of his cloak at the edge of the river. His teeth grazed against the column of her throat, her slender fingers threading their way through his dark hair.

She felt a tingling numbness in her skin, hormones shutting down her brain and the rise of her animal self. From there on in it was all passion, intense, intoxicating. It was her release, her escape, her drug. He was her escape. They became one, one mind with one goal and purpose, each utterly drunk with love for the other.

And then, everything ceased, their heartbeats slowed, almost in tandem with one another, only their harsh breathing split the otherwise silent air. Darius blinked and his eyes felt heavy as he felt a blackness come over him. Like a blanket, one of warmth that still somehow made him shiver, though he knew she felt it too. He glanced down at Lena, at her gorgeously long neck that bared as her head still hung back. Her eyes remained closed as her hand reached down to cover his, and kissed the inside of his palm, sweet and gentle.

He didn't hesitate to pull her to lie on top of him, his lips pressed against hers with fervor. Darius felt Madellaine wrap her arms around him in a moment and he allowed her head to rest against his chest as they both felt sleep and exhaustion wash over them in waves. All his thoughts stopped as if his heart took over from his head when she was close. In a moment of doubt, wondering if what had happened was really real, he clenched onto her hand tightly, as if to check she was still really there beside him, her head nestled against his chest. Really there and really real….and she was, body and soul.

Darius doubted anyone else felt this way about her, about being in this celestial creature's arms, though he pitied them if they did love this much, as much as he did, and lost. Because that was a pain that killed soft and slow. How was he to put their love into mere words? An entire ocean of ink wouldn't be enough to describe them. They were a starburst of light amongst the darkening dusk. They were all the stars in the sky condensed into a single point. They were everything and nothing at the same time.

Together, they were both a beautiful dream and a catastrophic nightmare.

They were in love.

* * *

By the time the two of them made it back to the cathedral, it felt like everyone’s inquisitive stares followed them, everyone from the Archdeacon to Alice, to a few of the lay brothers.

They tried to hide it, especially Alice, but Darius wasn’t an _idiot_. He could see his lovely, adopted mother figure _spying_ , the stolen glances that she and another nun exchanged as Darius led Madellaine to the kitchens, starving after their time together. It must have been his unruly clothes, he was sure of it. Mud splattered against his black undershirt, one of his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the other hung limply and undone at his right wrist. Moss and cobwebs littered his black leather breeches.

Madellaine wore both of their capes on the walk back to the cathedral at Darius’s insistence, not wanting her to get cold.

Their clothes were muddy and soiled with bits of moss and dirt. She clutched at her capes on the chest, her hair cold and damp, though it would dry relatively fast once he got her in front of the fire. Madellaine was still staying in the cathedral for the time being as Darius worked at finding a suitable home for the two of them to live in, but he did not want her to start living with them until they were already married.

When they reached the spare cloister cell, she stepped in. The soft clacking of Madellaine’s brown leather boot heels almost pained Darius to let her go. His overwhelming need to follow the young blonde inside sent a spiraling ache throughout his entire body, causing the man to tremble in hesitance. Darius swallowed down thickly.

Madellaine silently faced him, the door hanging between them. In the split seconds, it took for the couple to face one another, both found themselves utterly immobilized from earlier.

Darius awkwardly cleared his throat, well aware of a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks, and made to turn away. “Well, if there’s nothing else…goodnight, my love,” smiling as his fiancée half-smiled and looked down, blushing too. _Let me in_ , he silently pleaded, hoping she could hear him in his impossible telepathy. He wanted nothing more than to speak the words, begging her to let him stay with her tonight. _Just once…_ This desire was so itchy that he wanted nothing more than to curl his hand into a fist and hit the brick walls instead. He looked away in frustration and stepped back with a curt nod of his head, his blue eyes glowing with vexation. _Let me in, let me in, Lena. Please…Let me in, love._

He repeated it in his mind like a mantra, and his heels vibrated against the floor, waiting to hear Madellaine lock her chamber doors. And when her faint, sweet, shy voice called out to him, he froze and turned on his heels. “Will you stay in the other cell, Darius?” Madellaine asked meekly. The words were almost void in the stillness that hung between the two of them.

He went back to where she stood in the doorway and crossed the entrance to her warm room without Madellaine needing to ask again a second time and locked the door behind them.

“No,” he murmured in a soft voice as his lips met hers with fervor.

* * *

He really _hated_ having to use his hook as a lock pick. he always had but considering they'd locked it, and neither of them had the key, it was up to him. Killian swore under his breath and fumbled with the point of the hook in the mechanism. “Fuck _me_ , why do _I_ have to be the one to do it?” Killian growled to himself darkly under his breath for the tenth time.

Killian was a hundred percent positive he’d not been in a more awkward position than this as his calloused fingers wound tightly around a flagon of red Italian wine and drained the glass in one go before handing the empty chalice off to Regina for her to take. He bristled, gnashing his teeth together as he threw back a truly admonishing and withering glower towards Rumple and Regina, the pair of whom hung back and were watching him outside of the young woman’s chamber doors with amusement.

“ _Because_ , Captain Guyliner, oh One-Handed Wonder, you’re the only _one_ he’ll listen to besides Belle and the girl inside there, who has… _other_ _things_ on her mind at the moment,” Regina spoke up sardonically, not in the mood for Hook's complaining and further bullshit, flinching as she heard what sounded like the beginnings of a faint, muffled yelp coming from upstairs. She furrowed her brows, as did Killian, as all three of them looked towards the ceiling as another shrill cry rent the air. "Hurry up and be quick about it, Jones."

Killian nodded begrudgingly. He drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs, his cheeks stinging as he pushed open the door to the girl’s cloister cell she was bedding down in, and Killian Jones entered an entirely different world. His face paled, draining of all colors, as he caught sight of _her_. Madellaine de Barreau, though if what the Dark One was telling him was true, in another week or so, she would become a Jones, and for all they knew, at least what Regina suspected, the girl already pregnant with Brennan.

The thought plastered under his skin and made him shiver. Her face was pinked at the cheeks, her lids closed, lips limned in red. She stirred slightly in a lavender nightdress, her shoulder-length blonde hair a wave of golden sunrise against the swirls of dark grey bed sheets. And then, as Killian’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he shifted towards him, he froze, his blue eyes met with the most peculiar image in the world, something he would never see again. In the arms of Madellaine Renee de Barreau lay a head of ebony.

He stood motionless and rooted to the spot. It was an eerie sensation, one he did not particularly like, to see himself lying in the arms of another woman.

 _Not me_ , he had to remind himself as he gnashed his teeth together in annoyance, just wanting Rumple and Regina to take him home back to Emma. _My….my…_ but his thoughts trailed off and he didn’t complete it as another shrill cry coming from fuck all only knew where upstairs rent the air and he knew he couldn’t waste any more time.

He raised his knuckles to the door and knocked on the doorpost to loudly announce his presence to his doppelganger of an ancestor and the young blonde woman, who really was quite a pretty little thing, blonde, a pretty face and good, slender features, and would make a good wife to the man she lay in the arms of, though in his mind, of course, _his_ lovely wife was far more beautiful.

Killian smirked as the pair bolted upright in bed. His ancestor, Darius looked wildly around the room as Barreau let out a squeak and raised the blankets to her chest to cover her modesty. Thank God the other Jones was mostly fully clothed, save for his shirt. The protective man snapped immediately to attention as Darius became aware of an intruder in Madellaine’s chambers as a cloaked figure loomed over their bedside, his hand outstretched as if to touch her cheek.

Killian should have known that there was nothing to identify himself in the shadows of the dimly lit almost pitch-black cloister cell, and in the space of a breathless moment, a blur flashed before Killian’s eyes as his own ancestor threw aside the quilt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, letting out a growl of frustration. He heard the all-too-familiar shrill high-pitched shriek of a sword being pulled from its scabbard.

Caught completely off guard and with no weapon other than his own hook to defend himself, Killian couldn’t manage to steady his gait, and he stumbled backward as Darius shoved him away from Madellaine, who let out a whimper of fear and clutched as the blankets, holding them close to her chest, scrambling across the bed and to the furthermost corner of the room, away from him. The man’s strength propelled Darius towards Killian, and before he could react, the sword the other man held whirled angrily past his head, jabbing fiercely at his gut, and would have hit its intended target had Killian not scrambled away last second.

"Whoa, whoa, easy!" Killian swore through gritted teeth, hoping to diffuse the tension, though the moment he heard the other man, this soldier, let out a fierce growl from his broad chest, he knew there was no attempting to reason with the man.

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Darius demanded, trying to chase the exhaustion and sleep from his brain in order to protect his lady love. “What the bloody hell do you _want_?” he shouted.

From what little he’d been able to make out, the assailant had come for Madellaine. And that, he could not let it happen, for she was the most beautiful thing to happen to him in a long time, and he’d be damned if he were going to let this cretin take her away from him. He would have this man’s head on a spike.

Again, Darius sliced at the intruder’s head, coming but a hair’s breadth away from spilling the man’s blood over the floor.

In the darkness, Killian tripped over what felt like a loose cobblestone and fell to the floor. He was, at least, a little bit relieved that his reflexes were still lightning-quick after all this time as he rolled out of the way of the man’s cutting blows. Sparks lit their way through the darkened room as the man’s Roman blade came crashing down onto the cold hard stone floor.

Killian knew if he didn’t think of something and _fast_ , his ancestor would run him clean through with his blade before he could even announce himself and why those two made him do it. He had no knowledge of who Killian really was to him now.

Killian let out a moan. He’d have no choice but to reveal himself. “ _Darius_!” he bellowed, raising his voice to ensure he was heard. “ _Stop_! _Don’t_!” he pleaded, finally lowering the hood of his cloak from his face, at the exact moment the other Jones raised his sword for another attempt at taking his own head.

Darius was just about to bring the weapon crashing down onto their intruder’s skull and bash the man’s brains clean in, when the moment the man lifted his face and blue eyes met blue eyes, he froze, lowering his sword to his side numbly.

It was… _himself_?!? But _not_ himself. This _other_ him was a bit leaner, not quite as stocky, or broad in the chest, and slightly lighter hair.

Darius felt his arms go weak and his lungs refused to air, and he could hear Madellaine let out an audible gasp of surprise from behind him as she gingerly stepped out of the corner which she’d been cowering in, her curiosity getting the better of her. There were no words left in her.

Madellaine swallowed and looked at Darius. “What’s…what’s going on?” she gasped out breathlessly, a hand over her racing heart and clutching a fistful of her gown.

His cerulean, narrowed blue eyes landed on Killian, and he swore the man’s face paled in shock and surprise, his lips parted open in awe. Killian resisted the urge to snort and roll his eyes. Well. That made two of them that were just as surprised as he was.

“What the bloody hell _is_ this?!? Who the hell are you and what do you want with _her_?” Darius bellowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked at the intruder in his room.

“I didn’t come here to _hurt_ either one of you, Jesus Bloody Christ! _Fuck_! I’d quite like to bloody _keep_ my _head_ , thank you very much!” Killian shouted, carding his hands through his thick dark hair, his own temper swelling to the surface. He let out a haggard sigh and turned towards Madellaine. “Do forgive the intrusion, milady,” Killian spoke up when he did finally manage to regain control of his voice, stammering slightly as he swallowed thickly, tripping over his words. “I did not mean to barge in like this, but the lady Belle upstairs, she is in a great deal of pain and could use your help.”

He knew the moment the words left his lips that they had hit their mark. Killian watched in amusement and admiration as Madellaine’s facial features hardened and took on a surprisingly stony look, a similar look Emma got sometimes whenever she had made up her mind about something, and quickly nodded, dressing quickly, and pausing only once to tie her blonde hair back into a messy, loose bun. He chuckled briefly as she shot him a truly withering and slightly distrustful look, though she wasn’t given a chance to speak as therein came another knock at her doors.

Madellaine froze as Sister Alice barreled through the door, looking quite agitated and white-faced and flustered.

The nun held steadfast onto several rolls of soft white linens and a bowl of disgusting smelling herbs and almost tripped over the hem of Darius’s overly long monk’s habits that she’d stolen, keeping them for herself instead of doing as he had asked her originally and burning all of them.

“Oh, A—Alice, I mean…Mother, what…what can I do for you, Alice?” she stammered, swallowing hard as she caught the stunned look on the grey-haired pretty nun’s face as she took in the sight of what she perceived to be two Darius’s, and was wondering if maybe the new arrival clad entirely in black leather was a bastard half-brother of the young man’s or something, but quickly shook it off.

Madellaine let out a tiny, tired sigh remembering Alice’s first words when Darius had taken her back to the cathedral to meet the woman who was as good as his mother and had told her to call her the same thing that he did.

Darius and Killian tore away their wrathful gazes from one another to study the pretty nun for a while, her trembling hands and fretted bright blue eyes told them all that she worried.

“Quasi demands you come, Madellaine. The boy says you’ve _taken_ too long. It’s Belle. Her time is upon her, love, and she’s in a bad way, child,” Alice said, wearing an exasperated look as she looked towards Madellaine and then back to Killian and Darius, still looking shellshocked, but she recovered quickly.

“Yes, yes, o—of course, I will come, I just…” Madellaine squirmed uncomfortably, striding towards Alice, and taking the bowl of herbs and linens from the older woman and turning back to Darius and shooting her affianced an apologetic look. “Dari, I’m afraid I’ll have to see you later,” she whispered.

Darius shot a withering look towards the intruder in their room, cursing and damning the man to the seven hells below for interrupting the intimacy of his and Lena’s sleep, though he merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He stepped aside and gave his head a curt little shake, convincing Madellaine that she needed to attend to the more important matter, though he could see it in her blue eyes: the curiosity was stricken on her face at wanting to know who this ‘new Darius’ was, and what the bloody hell he had been doing in their room.

Madellaine’s tiny sigh she let past her lips was more than enough to tell Darius how grateful she was for the man’s tolerations of this unexpected development. Belle’s labor was early, though only be a week or so at best, but from the sounds of the hair-raising ungodly scream that emitted and carried from upstairs, whatever was happening to the poor thing _wasn’t_ good.

“I—I h—have to go then, Darius. Belle sounds in great pain. Will you be alright here with…ah, _him_?” she questioned, raising her thin blonde eyebrows in alarm at Killian.

“Killian, milady,” Killian quickly spoke up, shooting the young blonde a disarmingly charming white smile and a brief nod of his head in respect towards the young healer and midwife.

Darius pursed his lips into a thin line, not liking how this bastard was addressing his love but chose to let it go. For Lena. “Go, it’s alright, I’ll be _fine_ , love,” Darius murmured soothingly even before Madellaine scurried away with Sister Alice. He himself was deeply concerned for the bell ringer’s wife. Darius watched as the women trickled out of Lena’s chambers, leaving only him and this Killian bloke. Once the women were well out of earshot, he spun on the new intruder. “What the bloody fuck do you want?” he whisper-hissed through gritted teeth, not bothering to mind his language anymore. Darius’s threatening tone spurred a quiet shrug from Killian as he took two steps closer to look the soldier in the eyes. "What are you _doing_ here?" he snarled. "Who the fuck are you, and why do you look like me?"

“Is it true? You’re Darius ah… _Jones_ , then?” Killian asked.

Darius narrowed his eyes, his fingers itching to plunge his sword deep into the man’s slender chest if he did not tell him what he wanted immediately, though he resisted the urge to.

Darius felt a surge in his temper swell and his hackles begin to rise as the mad dog within his mind growled and foamed at the mouth, that this intruder had almost laid a hand on _his_ lovely bride. He was overcome with a fierce need to protect his new family. “What does it matter to _you_? Who’s asking?”

Killian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “So, it _is_ true, then?” he asked in a cordial but gruff-sounding voice. He’d not smiled once, save for in Madellaine’s general direction, always mindful of his courtesies towards a woman, as he turned to look at Darius. Even in the freezing air of the cloister cell the two men were in while they waited in a sense of nervous anticipation for Madellaine to come back down with news of the lady Belle and her babe, Darius could feel his temples start to glisten with sweat.

But Killian did not give him a chance to speak.

“I suppose, if you were any other man, I’d rip your throat out right here in favor of the _pig_ that was my father, but according to the rules, I can’t, at least that’s what Gold says because if I do _that_ , then I cease to exist and Emma won’t marry me. It’s bloody complicated and I figured you and I could hunt down that pretty nun that was here and see if she’ll let me have a bottle of that wine I saw her hoarding in the kitchens earlier. It’s a long story and you’re gonna need some liquid courage to hear it,” he snapped, remembering that everyone here in this timeline knew Rumple as Monsieur Gold. He snorted and this time, he _did_ roll his eyes.

Killian paused to look at the stupefied expression on Darius’s face and scoffed, shaking his head at the incredulous look on the man’s face. “But in exchange for lessening the burden on each other, I think you and I might have a shot at getting to know one another, don’t you think? I never really knew my father all that well growing up, I’m afraid. I was holing out hopes that you might be _different_ , _Darius_. Gold says you're stalling in starting your family with the Barreau lass. I've come to tell you to quit the shit and get a move on, because if you don't then _my_ family suffers, and I'm _not_ going to let that happen," he growled. "Oh, and since we share the same last name, I think it’s only fitting that you let me call you… _grandpa_.”

And time stood still for Darius as his own grandson wound his arms around Darius’s middle and crushed him in an almost bone-breaking hug, a rather insane form of a greeting which sent the former soldier letting out a pained grunt as his grandson cracked two of his ribs in his first hug to his grandfather, and Darius felt a rush of cold, biting air flood his burning lungs as Killian Jones relinquished his grip, and snorted at the look of shock on the man’s face and dragged him out of the cell and headed towards the kitchens with Regina's guidance, with the promise to explain everything over what was like to be several bottles of wine while they laid in wait for news of Belle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to explain how Brennan winds up out of Paris and into OUAT's universe :D, in my mind, it's not that complicated, but it's coming in another chapter or two but first....our favorite bell ringer and inventor's daughter are about to become parents, so stay tuned!


	77. New Life and New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels like it took forever for baby Quasibelle to get here, but...here it is :D Hope you enjoy it! I am sorely tempted to write a sequel to this story at some point, but we’ll see how it goes! 🥰

**CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX**

It seemed like the bell tower’s balcony that the bridge connected the north and south bell towers to be the only reprieve that Belle could manage to get these days as the sweltering heat of summer and the humidity as July crept in its petty pace filled their north tower’s loft.

Her laboring began late in the afternoon of a day that, judging by the rolling black and purple thunderclouds, had promised a rainstorm. She’d been standing outside on the balcony for fresh air, trying to quell nausea rising in her throat, talking to no one in particular about what they were going to name their baby when it made its way into the world to the three stone statues that Quasi sometimes talked to when her swollen abdomen began to twist with a painful cramp that sent swells of white-hot pain up and down Belle’s aching back.

Belle gasped loudly, bringing one hand up to cradle her swollen stomach through her thick velvet dress.

With her other hand, her slender fingers curling around the ledge of the balustrade for support, as hard as she could to brace against the pain. “Are you alright?” an elderly female’s voice asked her, startling Belle upon the noise reaching her eardrums, eliciting a scream from the young woman. Quasi was inside mending one of the bells that had developed a crack up her right side with hot lead.

She’d not thought they would be receiving any visitors outside of Darius and Madellaine, which wasn’t her best friend, for sure. It definitely wasn’t Alice’s voice, and none of the other sisters of the faith held such a voice.

“Look at me, dear, just breathe through it, and the pain should hopefully pass relatively soon,” the woman’s voice said, soft and kind. “You don’t have to be afraid of us.” 

Belle, whose eyes remained squeezed shut as she breathed in sharply through her nose as the pain slowly but surely subsided, slowly straightened her gait.

Expecting to see either one of the monks or perhaps someone else who’d come to call on the bell ringer’s wife for reasons unknown, the young brunette was more than a little shocked to see greystone a few inches from her arm. It had not been there before, Belle noticed, feeling a vent of panic flood her veins and blood as adrenaline.

She blinked owlishly as the gargoyle statue, covered in moss and lichen, and looked like she needed a good cleaning, was staring at her with a compassionate, if not slightly sympathetic, and worried look on her granite face.

Belle felt her jaw drop open in shock and quickly turned around, finding the other two gargoyles perched there, smiling at the young woman kindly, despite their grotesque appearance, their sharp teeth, and vicious horns.

“Milady Belle,” the tallest of the tree said in a stoic, regal voice, holding out a claw to the young woman then.

The shortest one, the fat one who resembled a stone swine more than a gargoyle, hobbled forward with a mischievous grin on its pudgy face the second she took a staggering step back, having to lift the hem of her dress to avoid tripping. “We have been waiting a _long_ time to meet ya.”

This…this could _not_ be happening to her! Belle _screamed_ , backing away from the creatures until her aching back pressed against the cool stone wall behind her.

The noise, thankfully, brought her husband running to her side within a minute, panicked, and nearly running into her as Quasi skidded to a halt, clutching at a stitch in his side, winded, having run all the way from the upper mezzanine and to the balcony in his haste to appear at his wife's side, and looked to be out of breath.

“Belle? _What_? What is it? Is it the baby? A—are you hurting? What’s _wrong_ with you?” he demanded, his tone clipped and harsh, coming out harsher than he would have liked as his gaze traveled from Belle’s ashen, too-pale face and the droplets of sweat that had started to gather along her brow, following his wife’s gaze, and felt his heart drop into the pit of his churning stomach as he met the quizzical, curious gazes of Victor, Hugo, and Laverne.

His tongue suddenly felt like there was a gag on his mouth as he shot the three stone statues a truly withering glower that would have possessed the power to wilt a fully bloomed rose had Quasi the capability to do so.

“I…I…” Quasimodo’s brain felt like it was utterly reeling as he wracked his mind to find a plausible denial for what his wife was seeing or at least some excuse, but nothing was coming to mind. “I—I can _explain_ ,” he started, though he flinched and shirked away when Belle let out a horrible scream that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright on end, his face paling in shock.

“E—explain _what_?!?” shrieked Belle, her face now drained of color, rendering her almost pallid-looking, like that of a corpse as she stared at the three stone gargoyles.

The three-stone figures were shorter than Belle by several feet, and the young woman quickly noticed that Quasi’s friends had no feet, since normally when they were lifeless, they were set upon pedestals and moved throughout various parts of the upper level of the church.

Though Belle had perhaps foolishly assumed that Quasi was simply moving the statues on his own, either out of his way so he and she could work unencumbered or simply to allow the gargoyles a better spot in which they could leer down at the parishioners come to pray and give Alms on a Friday.

“Oh, _god_ , a—are you _real_ , all of you? I—I knew you were Quasi’s friends, b—but I never imagined you were…well, _alive_ ,” Belle moaned, swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat. “Please don’t eat me, I—I’m sorry for all of the times I called you _ugly_!” she squealed, holding out her violently trembling hands in front of her, squeezing her eyes shut, scrunching her face.

She couldn’t be sure, but she swore she heard Quasi make an odd, strangled sound at the back of his throat as they heard the three stone gargoyles begin to splutter indignantly and huff in outrage at her insults. It sounded like he was torn between the desire to laugh at his friends and yell at them for frightening Belle.

Belle swallowed nervously, keeping her gaze fixated on the three stone figures as she continued retreating, Quasi slowly but surely copying her movements, though his was more out of concern for her physical well-being and the babe inside her as her time neared, and less so of being frightened by his old friends.

The young woman drew in a shuddering breath, forcing her mind to calm down and process all of this.

The gargoyles were… _alive_. And _talking_. To _her_! Belle forced herself to not revert her gaze as she looked at them. “Can _all_ of the statues here in Notre Dame talk?” she whispered, a horrified expression flitting across her clammy face as beads of sweat started along her brow.

“No,” the tall one who Belle was sure she’d heard Quasi call, Victor, from time to time, said sadly. “We don’t know why, but the three of us are the only ones that can come to life when the right mood strikes our fancy.” He paused for effect and rubbed his granite chin thoughtfully before pulling a face and looking towards the other statues. “Though the rest of them make enough noise you’d _think_ they do,” the statue chuckled good-naturedly.

The only female of the bunch hobbled forward, a kind smile etched on what Belle supposed was meant to come across as sort of a matronly face, but ultimately failed in that regard, reaching up to give her hand a pat.

“We’ve been wanting to meet our boy’s wife for a long time, dear. No need to tell us your name, we know it. Ours in case you’ve forgotten is Laverne, that’s me, obviously, the tall one is Victor, and the fat swine who can’t watch his trash mouth is Hugo,” she said, sounding remorseful and sympathetic. “The decision is not quite as simple to make. We needed some time to think about it. Quasi over here is the only one we’ve ever really talked to. Besides, we’ve got a list of unspoken rules the three of us sort of gotta follow, like how God has commanded we be still around any humans that come to visit. But you alongside our boy are the one exception to that rule,” Laverne quickly explained. “He said we could talk to you, and to your baby when the time is right, which is why we couldn’t reveal ourselves to you until now. Sorry if we scared you. We should’ve been more subtle with our approach.”

The plump one who Belle knew was called Hugo now shrugged his shoulders and offered her a mischievous grin, revealing sharpened incisors that made Belle shiver. “I had the bright idea to hide in your bedroom,” he snickered, to which his remark earned a swift punch from Laverne, who pursed her stone lips into a thin line, glaring at the fattened stone swine with a look that Belle could only describe as intense, utter annoyance and anger.

“And _scare_ the poor dear half to death?” Victor murmured under his breath, sounding more insulted than angry with Victor. “You must be absolutely _crazy_ , Hugo!”

“ _Hey_! Was that a _shot_?” shouted Hugo, and before the tall one called Victor could offer up a cutting retort, he tackled his comrade to the ground, the two gargoyles becoming a tumble of wings and stone fists as they fought.

Belle gaped, blinking owlishly at the strange scene in response, though her attention was torn away from the scuffle that Quasi had to step in between the two feuding gargoyles to break up as Laverne let out a tired little sigh.

“Ignore those two,” she huffed in frustration. “They’re only two centuries old. Much growing up to do. And…” She paused when she noticed Belle’s brows furrowing in a frown. “What’s the matter with you, dear? Are you sick? You’ve gone pale,” she murmured, raising her voice enough to ensure that Quasimodo heard her.

Belle had moved to the front of the balcony’s terrace, leaning against the balustrade’s railing for support, her knuckles bone white with the effort to steady herself. Her gasp split the sudden silence as the two fighting gargoyles fell silent upon hearing Laverne’s words, but it wasn’t caused by her shock at the revelation that the gargoyles Quasi was so fond of talking to were _alive_. The sudden rush of blood to her veins and sharp, shooting pain in her stomach caused the baby to react.

A sharp, shooting kick struck her right side from within, and she doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach with one hand and the railing with the other as she slowly but surely sank to her knees. Quasi was by her side in a heartbeat, sinking to his knees to join her on the balcony floor as a low guttural groan rose from Belle’s throat. Belle dared not move, fearing something was wrong.

“ _Belle_!” Her husband shouted, wincing visibly as Belle shirked away from how loud his voice carried. “Is it the baby?” he questioned nervously, lowering his voice.

Belle sanguinely lifted her head and nodded through gritted teeth, only able to nod and reach to grasp onto Quasi’s outstretched hand, while his other arm wound around her waist, rubbing small circles onto her back, trying to do what he could in hopes of soothing some of his wife’s discomforts and pains.

Laverne spoke up, saving Belle the trouble of summoning enough strength on her throat to answer her husband when there was none.

“You need to go get that other girl. What’s her name? Barreau? The midwife, she’s here somewhere, isn’t she?” Laverne looked to Victor for confirmation.

“Madellaine,” Victor replied calmly, though just a hint of worry could be heard creeping its way to the scholarly gargoyle’s voice. “She’s downstairs, I believe.”

The full force of her contraction was hitting Belle hard as the pain caused Belle to remain on the floor on her knees, doubled over, groaning against the hurt she felt. She wildly grasped at her stomach, trying desperately to make it stop. Quasi grabbed at her hand and could only rub the small of her back while Belle flinched and moaned in pain, barely able to stifle the agonized scream of pain.

Her lungs burning for breath, Belle gasped to regain some small semblance of oxygen to her lungs, straightening a bit, and forced a smile, though it was strained.

“I—I think it might be time,” she said, shaking. She froze, her breaths catching in her throat as she saw Quasi’s face promptly drain of color as his mind struggled to process what his wife’s words meant.

“ _How_?” Quasi demanded, looking pale and utterly at a loss for what to do.

Belle stared at Quasi incredulously, hardly daring to believe her ears. “Wh—what do you mean _how_ , Quasi?” she yelled, cringing as her voice rose an octave. “I—it’s time, love, this is my body’s way of saying it’s coming. My—my water broke quite a while ago, I’ve been trying…to control it,” she gasped through her gritted teeth.

“B-but this—this doesn’t _happen_ like this, no one has babies this _fast_!” he shouted, panting heavily now. Quasi let out a growl of frustration and carded his gloved hands through his thick red hair, seizing on fistfuls and tugging on them so hard he swore he felt the roots scream in protest. “Can’t you just—can’t you just _hold_ it in?”

“ **NO, QUASI, I CAN’T JUST HOLD IT IN**!” shouted Belle, her temper getting the better of her as she squeezed her eyes shut as another contraction rippled and tore through her insides. She groaned as the surge in her temper caused another painful start of a contraction. She gritted her teeth and moaned through it, only speaking more calmly and quietly when it had passed. “I need you to be _calm_ , okay? I—if the baby is born into a stressful environment, then it’s sure to be wired for life, darling.”

The past seven months once things had settled down for the two of them had been the happiest Belle had ever felt in her life. Her only regret was that her Papa had not been by her side to become a grandfather to her baby. Belle nodded as Quasi swallowed past the lump in his throat, though his face drained of what little color was left as he heard his wife let another low, guttural groan.

The poor man was looking utterly panicked and near hysterics. She almost would have laughed at him if she weren’t in so much pain. He wrang his hands together.

“What-what can I do?” he stammered, his panicked tone causing Belle’s own nerves to fray as she let out a shaking sigh, allowing Quasi to help her to stand upright.

“Go get Madellaine or Alice,” she urged, unable to quell the note of panic and desperation from seeping into her voice. She watched, chuckling as her husband nodded and turned on the heels of his boots, though not before turning slightly and fixing Victor, Hugo, and Laverne with a truly withering look. “Watch my wife,” he barked hoarsely in a gruff voice that was the embodiment of the grave, sending a shiver down Belle’s spine, but she knew his tone of voice was not out of malice, but rather, of worry.

The gargoyles murmured that they’d watch Belle. Belle watched as her husband disappeared into the tower, hellbent on searching for Madellaine or Sister Alice, though not before glancing back over his shoulder and shooting his wife a worried, fleeting, pained glance.

She tried to smile through her pains and waved him on, hoping to reassure him that she would be alright. It had been this way for the last seven months.

Her heart swelled as her stomach did the same. Belle was certain there had never been a more loving, concerned, or doting husband in all of Paris than Quasi.

In the last seven months, Quasi had barely allowed Belle to lift so much as a finger.

She’d swear to anyone who would listen that he’d not removed his hands from her expanding abdomen the moment she’d announced to him that she was pregnant. She loved her husband with all her heart, and already decided she loved the child she was about to bring into the world, even if it was Gaston’s babe or not.

As the days slowly passed by, Belle soon discovered for herself that her favorite time of day was the night.

When the darkness settled over the City of Lovers and the city grew silent as the Parisian people were lulled to sleep when Quasi would ring his bells one last time and when he would finish, the two of them would lay together in their warm bed, just content to be next to one another.

As the baby grew and Belle’s body began to feel the strenuous effects of growing and carrying another human being inside of her, she relished taking the pressure from her bones and nestling into the blankets beside her husband, her stomach resting against the strong support of his muscular body.

Quasi would entwine himself around Belle, and trace circles on her belly until his hands came to rest on top of her, where the proud soon-to-be-parents would wait until they felt the baby kick his palms through Belle’s skin. The happy couple would smile and laugh in delight until they fell to sleep. Both of them were eager and more than a little excited for their child to join their simple but happy life.

As the first pains of her labor subsided, the three stone gargoyles hobbled their way over to where Belle rested against the cold stone wall of the balcony terrace, breathing slowly through her nose through her pains. Finally feeling like she was more or less able to get in a good breath, Belle forced herself to try to make her face exhibit the bravery that she knew had fled her earlier. Her shaking hands curled into fists at her sides, she kept her head ducked and her teeth gnashed together, her eyes squeezed, unable to look at either of the statues. It was not the most terrible pain she’d ever felt, but she knew before the dawn came, it would only get worse.

Belle swallowed hard and tried to keep her mind in the present and not think about the hard ordeal ahead of her. She did not think that she was quite ready for that. With the gargoyles’ help, at least to hold her hand, she was able to stand heavily to her feet, one hand holding her back, which was starting to ache.

Luckily, Belle didn’t have to wait long for Quasi to return. She stifled a small smile as she heard him swear under his breath as he practically skidded to a halt, barreling towards the balcony’s terrace, and almost stubbing his toe on Victor.

“Sh—she’s coming, Belle, M—Madellaine’s on the way,” he gasped, heaving, and clutching at a stitch at his side, lifting his head and met his wife’s gaze. Poor Belle was in agony. He could tell this was torturous for his wife.

Belle rested heavily against his shoulder as her body was ravaged by the pains increasing in frequency, lasting longer, and twisting her stomach with each restless step as she paced back and forth, trying to breathe through her contractions and shove the pain deeply away.

Her breaths burst forth from her lungs in uncontrollable wails. The pain-filled whines that escaped her throat became louder. “I—I’m sorry,” Belle gulped, shooting Quasi and the three gargoyles an apologetic look, squeezing her eyes shut. “I—I don’t mean to be so _loud_ ,” she gasped, panting heavily to try to catch a breath.

Quasi vehemently shook his head against Belle’s.

“ _No_ , darling,” he told her forcefully, not bothering to apologize as he watched his wife shrink away in hurt. “You don’t apologize for _anything_ , sweetheart,” he tried to reassure her. “The church is closed at this late hour. No one but me and Madellaine and Darius will hear you, love. Scream and howl if you need to, it helps you feel better.”

Her pains were coming sooner, lasting longer, and gripping her harder as the minutes turned to hours. Belle would try as bravely as she could to breathe through the spasms and steel herself against them, but could not keep the desperate pain-filled moans from leaving her throat.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer tried his hardest to be his wife’s rock, but he himself was panic-stricken and terrified. Belle’s own mother from what little she could tell him had succumbed to the labors of childbirth. He froze and let out a growl of frustration as he shook his head angrily. He could not let the ghost of Belle dying in her battle to bring forth their child into the world enter his thoughts. He let Belle cling to him as softly or as strongly as his wife needed as she hung onto him during her agony.

He whispered sweet nothings into the shell of her ear to strengthen Belle’s resolve and gave her his strong but steady hands to hold when she couldn’t hold on any longer. Belle knew Quasi was terrified, just as she was, but she realized the man was not allowing her to see his fear.

It gave her a small modicum of courage, just enough to face whatever trials her difficult labor would bring. Quasi swallowed hard, swearing he could feel Belle smiling weakly against his neck, and it made him feel a little better, but only for a moment. She pulled apart weakly.

“I—I think I need to go and lie down,” Belle forced through her desperate, pain-filled cries of agony.

Quasi nodded, ushering his wife inside the bell tower, feeling his wife relax in his strong embrace as they’d barely managed to reach their little sleeping nook as her loud eardrum-shattering wail pierced the night air. Feeling a surge of panic well within his veins, Quasi’s hand shook so badly as he wrenched open the curtain hung on the rod that gave them privacy during the night that the damned bloody thing fell all the way off.

Fortunately for him, though, Belle didn’t notice, as she was leaning over her contractions, trying to rub it away, her other hand raking painfully up her right thigh.

“Wh—where are you going?” Belle whispered in a choked, terrified whisper through gritted teeth, angry with herself for the fear she felt at the thought of Quasi’s absence. She didn’t think she could do this without him.

He’d turned on his heels to leave to get Madellaine and see what the hell was taking so long, though the desperation and tear-filled plea of his love’s voice gave him pause, and he slowly turned at the waist to face her. “To get you water. Bowls, blankets, love. Whatever you need,” Quasi quickly explained, trying to calm the frenzy of panic and dread in his tenor-like tones.

Belle nodded her understanding. Of course, Quasi was right. As always. “Hurry, please hurry,” she begged, blinking back her tears.

Quasimodo nodded in agreement, running towards the shelves where he kept their cups, thinking that a bucket of cold water from the well would do the trick, though just as he found the damn pail and was about to head down the stairwell, Madellaine came up the stairs, swearing up a storm under her breath about intruders in bedrooms and how Darius was going to be angry with her for something that he didn’t have time to ponder over as the young blonde lifted her gaze wearily.

In the younger woman’s hands, she held a roll of fresh linens, a basin of water, some wine, and blankets.

“Oh, good, I haven’t missed it, I was beginning to think I'd be late,” Madellaine joked weakly, her face pale and taut from being roused at what had to be nearing midnight from the middle of her sleep, at just the exact moment as another of Belle’s screams echoed and reverberated through the walls of their tower.

Madellaine’s face was pale and exhausted, but the seriousness of her gait made it clear that Belle right now was the only thing that mattered. But before she could take a step further to head towards the sleeping nook, Quasi rose to his full height of 6’3 and angrily blocked her way.

“Where the hell have you _been_? I sent for you!” he seethed at the young woman, only barely able to contain his full wrath.

Belle poked her head out of the corner of the bedroom, simply watching the scene unfold before her, relieved to see her best friend and midwife at long last.

Madellaine raised her thin blonde brows at Quasimodo and took a defensive stance, planting the heels of her brown leather boots firmly into the floor beneath her feet and jutting her chin out slightly defiantly at him. “If you _must_ know, Darius was dealing with a…an intruder in my chambers,” she informed him haughtily.

Quasi leaned forward, the tip of his nose almost touching the young blonde’s. “You think I give a shit about that right now? You aren't _hurt_ , you don't _look_ it, _so help my wife_. She's in pain, Madellaine!” he shot back, grinding his teeth as Madellaine’s facial expression turned angry, and the girl took a step back.

Madellaine’s thin eyebrows rose even further on her forehead, so far up they almost disappeared into her hairline.

“You _watch_ how you speak to me, bell ringer, or I’ll turn right around, and you can deliver your baby on your _own_ without my expertise,” Madellaine threatened.

“ _No_!” Belle shouted from their bedroom, trying to shuffle her way out the door to stop Madellaine from disappearing down their stairwell and abandoning her. “Please don’t go,” she begged, close to the point of tears.

Turning to face her best friend and now, she supposed her patient, Madellaine’s previously hardened expression and her tone softened as she took in Belle’s physical appearance. She nudged her way past Quasi and took Belle’s outstretched, trembling hand in her own.

She took a moment to re-do her loose, messy bun, as a few strands of her blonde hair had come undone, and she paused to brush back a lock of Belle’s damp hair, slick with sweat and tried to soothe her best friend’s worries.

“Don’t worry, Belle,” Madellaine told the other woman kindly, shooting a scathing look in Quasi’s direction. “I just had to put your husband in his place,” she joked, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at Quasi and rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to leave you, so don’t worry.”

She patted Belle’s hand and smiled at the girl, though Belle pulled apart from Madellaine’s handhold and walked back towards her and Quasi’s bedroom to lie down.

Belle’s best friend and future godmother to their babe the moment it entered the world looked around for her friend, though her bright blue eyes settled on the small wooden cradle in the corner, near his carving table that he’d not yet moved into his and Belle’s bedroom. Belle’s heart had practically melted when Quasi had presented his gift to her, taking painstaking care to prepare the soft feathery blankets that would line the bottom so their babe would be comfortable during sleep.

“You’re quite a craftsman, my friend,” Madellaine joked in an effort to lessen some of the bell ringer’s worry as they hurried towards Quasi’s sleeping nook. “If Darius and I ever have children, we’ll have to hire you,” she said.

Quasi let out a nervous chuckle, though it was not enough to mask the worry wrought in his quiet voice.

“Belle, sweetheart, Madellaine’s going to help us now, I—it’s going to be fine,” he stammered, flinging back the curtain to find Belle in the clutches of another crippling bad contraction. She was restlessly pacing the hardwood floor of their bedroom, supporting her aching back with one hand, the other resting on her stomach, trying to breathe slowly through the pain, though it looked to Quasi and Madellaine, who exchanged a look, that she was in pain.

Hating himself for even to have to leave Belle’s side for a fraction of a second, Quasi rushed to her side. He wanted so badly to help her, so bad that it ached, but he knew he was only a bystander, and he’d not even be allowed in the room alongside his wife to help her.

This was her work. Hers and Madellaine’s. Quasi wished he could somehow ease Belle’s pains and worries.

“A—are you alright?” Quasi awkwardly asked, feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his lifetime.

“ _No_ ,” Belle shot back vehemently, stilling a groan that threatened to escape her throat. “I am _having_ our _baby_ , Quasi, of course, I’m not alright!” She eyed him angrily. Quasi lowered his head, feeling like he was the one to blame for her pains, though he knew this not to be the case.

It was Gaston’s fault, the fucking bastard. He should have killed him sooner. Slowly, ignoring her outburst, knowing Belle hadn’t meant a word she said, Quasi gathered Belle in his arms and lowered her as delicately as he could onto the mattress of their marriage bed. Her eyes were desperate, frantic, her breaths shallow.

She collapsed against Quasi and wailed into his shoulder. He held onto Belle as tightly as he dared to as if he thought that could take the pain away from her. She blearily lifted her head when the smell of what smelled like rosemary and sage began wafting through the room.

She looked up and over across the room to find Madellaine had lit a small clump of sage and was slowly pacing the room with it, muttering a Romani chant under her breath, and purifying the room that was to be the birthing area. Belle collapsed back against the pillow, still gasping against the pains as Madellaine swept aside the blankets Belle had cocooned herself underneath on top of their bed and began to lift up the thin summer shift she wore.

“I need to check to see where you are,” Madellaine said softly, smiling at Belle from the foot of their bed.

Belle cringed, squeezing her eyes shut as Madellaine delicately began to probe her stomach, feeling for the position of the baby and how far along she was.

“H—he’s moved down in my hips, Lena,” Belle told Madellaine weakly. “I—I can feel him moving,” she said.

Madellaine flashed a bright white grin at Belle’s description of her labor progressing thus far. “You still think it’s going to be a boy?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice. Belle chanced a glance at Quasi, who stood hovering almost protectively over Madellaine’s shoulder, his face pale and trying not to peer beneath the blankets.

“Positive,” Belle whispered, trying to smile. Madellaine nodded and gently pushed Belle’s knees up.

“I have to check to see where the head is, my friend,” Madellaine informed her as she shot her an apologetic look for what she was about to do, only proceeding when Belle swallowed hard and nodded.

Madellaine pursed her lips into a thin line and slid her skillful and slender fingers inside of her, eliciting a gasp from Belle as she bit down on her lip in discomfort.

Laying there vulnerable and exposed as she was, Belle was quickly surprised to learn that she was not embarrassed, but rather, she no longer gave a damn at all.

She just wanted her and Quasi’s baby to come out. Belle felt as though darkness were closing in around her as she squeezed her eyes shut, gripping onto Quasi’s hand as though her husband were a lifeline. She willed her mind to think of anything while Madellaine continued feeling for the position of the baby’s head, trying to ignore the immense discomfort and pain of having her best friend’s hand in a place where Belle would really rather she _not_.

Part of Belle wanted to let go, to fall into a calm abyss of sweet oblivion, nothingness, and be swept away. Even as her mind and body begged for relief, Belle knew she could not allow herself to just give up so easily. She wanted this so desperately, needed it. Without her papa by her side, Quasi, Madellaine, Darius, and soon their baby was all that she had left in this cruel, dark city. Belle had known pain ever since she had married Gaston for her father’s sake, but never quite like this now.

This agony was by far worse than anything Belle had ever experienced, more urgent, and way more significant, with such a precious, dear prize at the stake.

Belle could feel Quasi’s hand grasping at her own by her side while Madellaine continued feeling around.

There was no time for Belle to wonder at the strength behind Quasi’s strong grip that she marveled at, or fearing that in her own haze of agony, she might accidentally break her poor husband’s fingers. Belle could barely sense the man leaning in close to her, willing strength into her, the man’s brow pulled tautly, his expression utterly worried.

Finally, Madellaine removed her hand and immediately rose to her feet and crossed the room to the washing basin, washing her hands and drying them with a clean cloth, before turning back. There was an odd expression on Darius’s fiancée’s face, one that both Quasi and Belle weren’t sure how to place, nor did they like.

Her face had gone pale, and her thin pink lips were pursed into a thin line. Finally, the agony was too much.

“Wh—what is it?” Belle gasped cautiously as Madellaine walked to their bed and perched herself on top of the chest of clothes that rested at the side of the bed.

“You’re fully opened, and as you thought, is starting to come down.” Madellaine smiled at Belle, though she still wore that peculiar look on her pale face. “Are you feeling the urge to push yet?” Madellaine asked.

“No.” Belle shook her head, swallowing hard.

“You will soon enough,” Madellaine reassured her friend. “First thing we have to do is get you out of bed.”

Belle’s eyes widened, her slender fingers curling even tighter around Quasi’s gloved hands. “I—I _can’t_ ,” she cried, tears pricking at the edges of her eyelids in her fear.

“Oh, yes,” Madellaine quickly nodded, as though to tell her best friend that it was pointless to argue with her. “You’re going to have to trust me, Belle. You have to get up and walk around. It’ll help bring your babe faster.”

She took hold of Belle by the arms and began to pull her up off the bed. Belle vehemently objected with a loud scream from the pain of another violent contraction.

On edge, Quasi smacked Madellaine’s hand away, not apologizing for his rudeness as the young blonde gingerly rubbed at her hand and shot the man a dark look. He stepped forward and took his wife from Madellaine’s grasp, though he didn’t refuse her orders. Quasi helped Belle to stand and steady her gait as slowly and carefully, he walked with his wife in small circles, listening to Belle’s gasps and cries. Unable to stand upright, she clung onto fistfuls of Quasi’s thick woolen tunic for support.

He held on to her tightly, willing himself to try to absorb some of her pains like a sponge.

While Madellaine busied herself in laying out the items she might need to help Belle with the delivery, Quasi was unable to shake that odd look she had gotten. Though before he could ask after it, Madellaine practically shoved a thicken woolen blanket on the ground. "Here," she snapped. "Put that in front of the fire I made, on the ground, just here."

“ _What_? _Why_?” he snapped. “Why am I putting it here?” he snapped, gesturing towards the fire that Madellaine was stoking to provide a little light and warmth. Madellaine snorted and peered at her best friend’s husband over her shoulder, giving him a look.

“You really are something, Quasi,” she sighed, tucking a stray wisp of blonde hair that had fallen loose from her bun. “This is where Belle’s going to give birth.”

Still nestled comfortably and tightly in Quasi’s strong grip, Belle’s head whiplashed sharply upward the moment the comment left Madellaine de Barreau’s lips.

“What?!?” Belle screamed and spluttered, her face draining of colors as she turned at the waist to glare at Madellaine. “I—I can’t have our baby on the ground!” she nearly screamed, appalled, crinkling her nose in disgust.

“Yes, you can,” Madellaine replied calmly by way of response and shrugged her shoulders. “You can’t lay on this soft bed.” As if to emphasize her point, she padded the mattress and raised her eyebrows in alarm towards Belle. “You’re not going to be able to push hard enough when the time comes.” Madellaine sighed, nodding her head, satisfied with the choice. “Here is going to have to do.”

“B—but…” Belle started to say, though that moment that passed between the three of them, it was as if God Himself had heard that Madellaine had prepared everything and that Belle’s babe was ready to make its way into the world. Belle’s face contorted in agony.

“Help me down,” she growled to her husband.

“What? _Where_?” Quasi snapped, determined and hell-bound to take Belle to wherever she needed to deliver the baby safely. He looked around their bedroom wildly.

“Here, right here,” Belle panted desperately, pointing a shaking finger towards the pile of blankets at the foot of their bed that Madellaine had forced Quasi to lay out. “I—I need to push. _Now_ ,” Belle gasped, tensing as the pressure within her stomach was overbearing herself.

Seeing no other choice, Quasi eased Belle as gently as he could down onto the pile of thick woolen blankets. Poor Belle panted and gasped against the burning ache and overwhelming need flooding through her body.

Madellaine, Quasi noticed, still wore an odd expression as she darted across the room, a basin of water in her hands that she set by where Quasi knelt on the floor. It prompted him to ask the question plaguing his mind.

“You _know_ something,” Quasi growled, his panic manifesting as the familiar hot fire-seed of anger in his chest as it rose up to his throat in the form of bitter bile.

Madellaine shot him a withering look, huffing in frustration, and folding her arms across her breast in ire. His grip tightened on his wife’s hands, and Quasi flinched as he heard Belle let out a pained whimper while she waited for Madellaine to find her voice and elaborate.

It seemed to take her an eternity to find her voice, and when Madellaine did, her soft, quiet voice was almost drowned out against Belle’s harsh wails and agonized screams. She slowly lifted her chin and looked at them.

“Just that you're going to need a second cradle, my friends. Did anyone tell you that you were having _twins_?” Madellaine asked flatly, smirking a little at the look of shock on Belle and Quasi’s faces collectively, though she had no time to explain that she’d felt two hands when she was inside of Belle checking the position of the baby’s head, that she’d actually felt _two_ , which explained a lot.

Why Belle had gotten so large over the last seven months. Madellaine shook her head to clear her mind and looked towards Quasi, who showed no signs of wanting to leave his wife’s side during her ordeal.

“ _You_ ,” she snapped, pointing towards Quasi. “Sit her up and brace her back. Give Belle something solid to lean against. If you’re going to stay in here, you might as well make yourself useful,” she finished as she turned her attention to Belle. “I want you to pull your knees up and when the next pain starts, I want you to bear down as hard as you can, you hear me?”

Belle nodded her understanding through her haze of pains, reaching desperately for Quasi’s strong hands. She began to bear down hard as the contraction started, her face growing frantic as the pains mounted.

“Push,” Madellaine ordered her friend, her tone harsh but not unkind, everything that Belle needed now. From somewhere far away, Belle could hear her own voice straining an awful guttural scream as her body attempted to push her babies towards life. _Twins_. They were…they were having _twins_. _Their_ babies. _Just_ theirs.

Again, she could hear Madellaine and Quasi’s words of encouragement as another spasm ravaged her already-exhausted body. Somewhere outside of the din of her awareness, Belle felt the soothing coldness of the damp cloth that Quasi used to wipe sweat from her brow.

“It’s almost over, Belle,” he whispered into the shell of her left ear, flinching once as he swore he heard a cracking of one of his fingers as his wife gripped onto his hand hard enough to break the bones in all his digits.

Belle nodded weakly, gasping in the air around her as though the oxygen were disappearing from the room. She gritted her teeth together and did as her body commanded of her, with a strength she did not know, bore down as hard as she possibly could to bring her and Quasi’s babies to life.

Belle’s ragged, panting gasps quickly transformed into agonizing screams as the babies began to emerge from her womb, ripping through her insides with such an excruciating force she thought she was being torn apart. She clutched tightly onto Quasi’s hand, who showed no signs of letting go, his other arm wound around her right knee to him support her legs while she fervently worked to bring their babies into the world.

Though something was wrong. The babies weren’t moving down in her belly anymore. Belle felt an overwhelming pressure to push with all the strength left in her body as it took over naturally until she was very nearly gone into shock from the immense, crippling pain.

And still, her muscles could not force her babies from her wound. At least, until Madellaine was forced to take matters into her own hands. She placed one of her palms on top of Belle’s stomach and one below, grinding her teeth as she pushed down hard with all her strength.

Madellaine shot her an apologetic look. “This is going to _hurt_ , my friend. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to push even _harder_ , nothing's happening,” she said, and she pushed down. Belle _screamed_ , thinking she’d explode from the pain. It took several grueling attempts from Madellaine, but finally, the babes’ bodies curled inside of her managed to break free from the pelvic bone on which they were stuck and began to be forced towards life by the straining their mother could not manage to control for her life.

The pain was worse than anything she’d ever felt in her life, but Belle did not let that stop her one bit. Her torturous screams were replaced by the slightest sounds of release as she propelled herself onwards, gritting her teeth, grunting, and groaning as she felt the head of their first babe begin to emerge from her widespread legs.

Belle could see a smile appear on Madellaine’s face, so the young woman took that as a positive sign, at least.

“That’s it, Belle, I see it, the top of the head is showing! Dark hair, just like yours! Keep going, keep pushing, it’s almost over!” Madellaine encouraged quickly.

Curious to see for himself, Quasi peered his head in between his wife’s legs, his eyes growing wide to match Belles’ as he saw one of their babies’ heads beginning to emerge from her body, just as Madellaine had announced.

“I can see its head, Belle!” Quasi told his wife, smiling in utter amazement. “Push! Keep pushing!” In his growing excitement that they were about to meet one of their babies, Quasi had not realized that he was shouting. “Push!” he shouted as Belle bore down for the fifth time.

“ _I am pushing_!” Belle screamed at him, weeping as she leaned her head back and breathed out deep, bending forward as her body strained to bring forth her babies.

Her jaws clenched and locked up as she groaned in exhaustion and exertion. She pushed with all her might and felt her baby’s head leave her body. Madellaine moved her blood-stained fingers to support the babe’s neck. Belle let out an agonized scream as she pushed the baby’s shoulders out of her, her hands moving to clutch onto Quasi’s strong bicep as she braced herself for one good final push to bring forth the first babe into their life.

“It’s coming!” Madellaine said eagerly. “You’re doing it!” she smiled at the exhausted woman in happiness.

Belle never once took her eyes off her husband’s face as she drew in an agonized breath and pushed again.

This time, after a few minutes of pushing, Belle grunting and taxing her body to the brink of exhaustion, the slightest sound of release could be heard and the pain-filled scream that wrenched from belle’s throat was soon replaced by the first angry cry of their baby’s first breath.

Madellaine worked quickly to cut the cord and clean the squalling infant that Belle had just delivered.

“It’s a boy,” she whispered, handing the baby off to Belle, who instantly cradled the squalling babe to her breast, tears pouring down her face as her body still struggled to push out the second baby from her womb.

For all Belle’s inner strength and resolve, she could not overcome the pain as her bloodcurdling screams carried on well into the early hours of the morning as midnight came and went, but her agonized screams that caused the pigeons to take flight from the towers and not come back (much to Laverne’s relief) brought with them the announcement of a birth, a new life brought into the world.

The second babe that emerged from Belle’s womb was a beautiful baby girl, and after a few minutes, both babes were nestled proudly in the arms of their parents.

“They’re beautiful, Belle, you did it, sweetheart, I’m so _proud_ of you,” Quasi whispered, his voice cracking. “I have a son and a daughter,” he whispered reverently. “they’re perfect, love. Just like you, darling.” He smiled at Belle and planted a gentle but chaste kiss on her brow.

“They…they look like you, love,” Belle gasped faintly with a bright smile, peering down into the faces of her babes that she knew Gaston had fathered, and yet, somehow, no traces of their real father could be seen at all.

Quasi shook his head in disagreement. "I think they're like you," he gushed.

“They’re beautiful, you two, but then I always knew my god babies would be beautiful,” Madellaine beamed in a teasing voice as she congratulated them. Belle broke her gaze from their babies’ bright blue eyes as they fluttered open before closing again and smiled up at the young healer and midwife, the joy of motherhood etched on the young woman’s face. The happy tears that Belle saw falling from Madellaine’s lids only endeared the girl more to Belle and Quasi. “What will you name them?”

Belle had to think for a moment as she looked down into the flawless faces of both her babies, her mind mulling over the dozens of combinations in her brain that she and Quasi had discussed. They’d need to pick one of each, a name for their son and a name for their little girl.

It seemed an eternity before Belle found her voice, and as she announced her children’s names, her voice broke. “Our son’s name is Maurice, for my dear father, God bless his soul,” she whispered, swallowing back a lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she looked into the sweet red face of her little boy as she held him tenderly. She lifted her gaze and looked towards Quasi gingerly cradling their newborn daughter in his strong embrace, as though the babe were made of fine china.

“And your daughter?” Madellaine pressed gently. Looking at his precious daughter, Quasi smiled, pulling the swaddled bundle close to his face and nuzzling her cheek for a moment. Madellaine leaned forward, barely able to make out the words, “perfect,” and, “my angel.”

Belle’s voice cracked as she burst into tears, still keeping her baby cradled as close as she could to her breast. “Lacey, our girl’s name is Lacey,” she whispered in a faint voice as she rested against the pillow, her eyelids fluttering closed as her body was utterly exhausted. “For my mother.”


End file.
